A Grey Thanksgiving
by AshBax
Summary: A fun three-part Thanksgiving story as told by Christian. This follows my Halloween story. The kids are six and four and there's a new baby on the way... Will Christian survive the school play, Thankgiving dinner and a houseful of family in one piece?
1. Chapter 1

**_Here's part one of three of the Thanksgiving story. If you haven't read Halloween, you might find it fun as this all takes place in the same year. There's a lot more to come with this one. Hope you enjoy! xo_**

"Ana, we forgot to stuff your turkey!" I call out as I walk the length of our long, dark hallway, worried about the fate of our un-full fowl.

The seasonal smells of sage and cinnamon and freshly sapped maple fill my nostrils and instantly thoughts of stuffing- or lack thereof- are lost as the aromatic lure of a Thanksgiving feast pulls me toward the dining room. I'm starved; my gut twisting in knot and want as I get closer to the promise of bounty. But, I don't think it's solely food I'm after. The warm yearning I'm feeling is in places potatoes and pie can't satisfy a man.

"You're right, Mr. Grey..." I hear Ana's seductive voice calling to me from the end of the hallway. "But, you're not having turkey this year..." Her words float in the air as a flicker of flame catches my eye. There's candlelight at the end of this tunnel.

As I round the corner at the hallway's end, I see my sexy as hell wife stretched out naked in the center of our Thanksgiving table on a silver platter garnished with phallic shaped root vegetables, an odd potato, and an obscenely long, bumpy squash. Oh, the things I could do with that squash. Julia Child would turn in her grave.

"No turkey? What will I eat?"

She parts her knees to give me a view of the five star cuisine

"Are you hungry?" she asks, sitting up on her elbows and pushing her breasts forward.

"Famished." I look down and my erection bobs in agreement. If he could smile, he would and I have to look twice because I could swear that he just did.

I catch a glimpse of myself in a long wall mirror and discover that I, too am buck naked. Well, not completely. I'm wearing a pilgrim hat. Why am I walking around the dark house in the buff looking to stuff a turkey in pilgrim hat? Where the hell is everyone else? Why am I asking these questions when my wife is served up naked on a platter in front of me?

"First course," she purrs, dipping her toes in a bowl of mashed potatoes, swirling them around until she scoops a bite out, lifts her foot to my mouth and smears my lips with fluffy starch. "Why don't you have a taste," she smiles.

I nip the piggy that went to market and she squeals like the one who went all the way home. Exactly where I'm planning to go. I slide her big toe in and out of my mouth, licking the whipped buttery goodness off, then move to another, sucking little piggies one by one until I can see her ruby pedicure again. She slides her foot away from my mouth, parting my lips as she goes, running her toe tips from my chin to my chest, all the way down to my erection. She then slides my most favorite part of my body between her two feet, giving me one helluva job. If he wasn't smiling before, he certainly is now.

"What about the gravy?" she asks, her feet leaving me as she points to a full boat beside her. She reaches for it, then slides it to me along the slick finish of the cherry wood.

"Oh yes, Mrs. Grey. I like my Thanksgiving dinner dripping in gravy."

I ladle the bubbling liquid and dribble it from her cleavage down her stomach, letting it pool in her navel. She flinches as it heats and pinks her flesh. What a lovely color it is. My cock concurs. There's a reason pink is the color of sweet love.

My tongue laps up the goodness, devouring the flesh between her breasts, then licking my way down her belly, enjoying every succulent drop against her skin.

"Why don't you taste my cranberries?" she asks, running her fingers over her nipples.

"Oh yes, Mrs. Grey." I slide myself up her body and take a nibble of her nipple.

"No, the real cranberries." She points to a bowl of sauce beside her. Her peaks are so aroused, they're bigger and redder than any berries in that bowl.

I spoon the sauce onto her, tasting my way up her right breast. She bucks and mewls.

"Sweet and tart at the same time." I suckle her peak. "Just like you, Mrs. Grey," I murmur against her flesh with a smile and she gives me a lip biting one in return.

"Do you want more?" she asks, as I finish the last drop; only a crimson stain left in the wake of my tongue bathing.

"Always with you," I say, looking up, gray gazing into sky blue. It's always a bright new morning in her eyes.

"What's for dessert?" she asks.

"My favorite pie." I move my fingers down her body, teasing her clit, then sliding two in and out of her until she's near her edge. "And I always like my pie with ice cream."

A carton of Ben and Jerry's vanilla appears out of nowhere on the wood next to my own. I stop the finger fucking- much to Ana's chagrin- to lift a spoon from the place setting at the head of the table and dig in. I drop a spoonful onto her navel causing her to shiver and groan in ecstasy, then spread the cream down her belly to her clitoris where the freeze makes her sweet bud pulsate. Following my milky trail, I use my tongue to devour every inch of her until I reach the promised land. Now, I know how the pilgrims felt when they hit Plymouth Rock.

I lick her nub, teasing and taunting it with my soft, but firm tongue. She squirms and I take hold of her hips, pinning them down so she has to take all of the pleasure. Her whole body vibrates as she cries out and comes gloriously and I taste the cream of Ben and Jerry's and Ana all at once.

"Forget the turkey, I think it's time to stuff you now, Mrs. Grey."

I move my body up hers and position myself at her entrance, about to take her, when I hear the strangest noise. It's a high pitched whistle. At first I thought it came from Ana's vagina, but upon further review, I think it's coming from somewhere in the dark.

"Is that a kazoo?" I ask as the sound grows louder and angrier. No, it's not a kazoo; it's like a bird call, but not from one that's fully alive or sane. Where the hell is it coming from?

Then, out of nowhere my dick feels like it was struck with a frying pan. Something pounds down on it again and again. The agony all too much...

"Ahhhh!" I scream out in pain, waking up in our bed to Phoebe, who's dressed in some Native American Indian princess getup, blowing a whistle in my face as she jumps on top of me like I'm a trampoline. "What the?"

"Wake up, Daddy!" She bounces higher, further crushing my dick that's buried under a comforter, blankets and flannel pajama pants that offer no real cushion from the assault. Finally, she lands with a dick-sparing knee to my gut.

"Okay, calm down," I say, attempting to hold her back before she can take out the Grey family dynasty with a sharp kick to the jewels. I look over to Ana, who's just waking up and laughing at me, scrunching her nose into the pillow.

"What time is it?" I ask, searching for the clock. It's so dark in here. Oh no, that's just because my eyes refuse to open all the way.

"It's turkey tooting time!" Phoebe screams and whistles some more, this time directly into my right eardrum. They're wide open now.

"It's 5:56 am," Ana says with a yawn, holding up the clock from her nightstand.

I used to wake a lot earlier than that in my youth, plagued with insomnia. Now, since the kids, I don't have the luxury of needing to stay awake.

"Phoebe, Thanksgiving is tomorrow. Plus, the turkeys aren't even up yet." Although, I most certainly was in my dream.

"Birdies get up early, Daddy. Teacher says that's how they catch the worms to feed their babies."

"Well, maybe we're the worms and we should sleep so the birds don't get us."

She thinks about that for a second.

"I think you're more like a turkey than a worm, Daddy."

"Thank you." I think.

"Teacher says that the turkeys love Thanks and Giver's day, because it's a holiday for them."

I guess they celebrate by sticking their head in the oven. Doesn't sound like a bad idea right about now.

"Who is this teacher? Did Miss Tippy tell you that?"

"Tilly!" Ana says. I always forget that sex crazed hippy's name. It should be Miss Tell-me-when-you're-a-coming-so-I-can-be-a-going.

Phoebe starts with the whistle again. This time in my left ear. At least she's even with the sides, so I can be equally deaf in both ears, instead of lopsided in my hearing impairment.

"What is that thing you're blowing?" I ask. It's long and tubular and the end is like a gigantic yellow beak. For a moment I fear she's been in the playroom at Escala.

"It's the turkey whistle. I'm in charge of making all of the turkey sounds in the play!"

"That's right, Daddy," Ana says. "Your big show is today."

Oh fuck. I almost forgot. It's the Wednesday before the Thursday, which means it's Thanksgiving day at the school. This year they're putting on a play entitled: _Plymouth Rockz the Kidz_ , which is a rock opera a la _Cats_ , but with pilgrims instead of pussies, that I've agreed to be part of. Agreed is a strong word; more like I was strong armed by my wife, children and the entire parent-teacher association at Kreative Kidz Progressive School. The only reason that school can call itself progressive is because they keep upping the bill.

"Okay," I say, pushing the beak away from my face as she blows. "Let's save the whistle until after Daddy has had his coffee." And possibly a double scotch.

Just then, Teddy barrels through the door wearing a cowboy hat, boots, a t-shirt with Woody from Toy Story on it and the dirtiest, ripped jeans I have ever seen. They look like they met a lawn mower, put up a fight and lost.

"I'm the sheriff and I'm running you out of town," Teddy says with an accent that's more pirate than Wild West as he jumps on the bed, pulling his fluorescent green water pistol from a holster around his waist that's really an old tool belt Taylor gave him, and sprays Phoebe.

"Ahhhh!" Phoebe screams and they run around the bed in circles, water flying and limbs flailing.

"Hey, boots off the bed!"

He ignores me and keeps chasing his sister over my knee caps.

"Kids, calm down!" Ana says, but half-heartedly. She's enjoying this; my suffering.

"Put that gun down right now, Theodore!" I yell. I always use his full name when I'm serious, just like I do with Anastasia. Unfortunately, Phoebe isn't short for anything, so she disregards most all of what I say.

Finally they stop.

"He's attacking me with water bullets," Phoebe says, then throws a hard punch to his arm. She's got a mean right hook, that one. Even Claude was impressed when she showed him. He told her she should be a lady boxer. I docked his pay that round, so he never mentioned it again.

"Ow!" Teddy wails.

"Phoebe!" Ana says. "No fighting!"

"It was self defense," she shrugs, looking all innocent and doe eyed, then winks at me. I taught her that line and that look to use on her teachers when a boy hits on her at school and she kicks him in the balls.

Teddy starts the chase again.

"Both of you, stop running all over our legs!" Jesus, when did our California King turn into the Wild Northwest? Don't answer that, Grey.

I grab Teddy's pistol from him and put it on my nightstand.

"Teddy, you must never point a gun like that," I scold. "Why are you shooting your sister with water?"

"Just playing Cowboys and Indians."

"Why?"

"It's Thanksgiving."

"There are no Cowboys in Thanksgiving," I say. "And where did you get those dirty jeans?

"I took my clean ones out to the yard and rubbed them hard on rocks and then rolled them on the real dirty dirt."

I shake my head. Why does this boy want to be covered in dirt all the time?

"Go change into your costume for the play."

"But, Daddy, my pilgrim costume looks goofy."

"It's Thanksgiving, you're supposed to look goofy. It's part of the tradition."

He frowns, but heads for the door.

I look at Phoebe.

"Chester isn't part of the activities today?" Maybe my neck will be spared from that blood thirsty hamster.

"Sure he is!" She turns around and there's the rodent royalty, dressed as a little Native American baby in a sack on her back.

"What's he supposed to be?"

"My papoose."

Ana laughs.

"Well, take papoose there to see Mrs. Taylor and start on your breakfast. Mommy and I have to discuss something important. Tell Mrs. Taylor we're in a meeting." Gail's been told that "in a meeting" means we're fucking and to keep the kids busy.

"You're having a mommy and daddy meeting again?! You had three ones yesterday." Ana looked particularly hot before and after work. It was those stockings and that hair flip she did. I couldn't keep my dick out of her.

"We had a lot to discuss."

"Am I in trouble?"

"You will be if you don't go eat your breakfast."

"Okay," she says, running out the door. I can see Chester flashing his teeth from her back to me in warning. Little fucker.

"And not toaster waffles with Nutella!" I call after her. "Eat something with less than a bag of sugar in it!" More like Nutella with crumbs of waffle. She thinks I don't know her tricks.

She's not listening to me, she's blowing her turkey whistle again.

I let out a sigh, my head falling back into the pillow.

"Maybe we'll get a better handle on this little one," I say, rubbing Ana's belly. "Third time's the charm." It's nice to rub a belly with a baby in it again.

"Probably not," she smirks.

"You're right. You and the kids have the measure of me." I smile. "You know, I'd say you are already starting to pop." I run my hand along the curve of her bump.

"No, I'm not. I'm not even three months along."

"Oh, yes. There's a definite bump," I say, lifting her t-shirt, which is actually my t-shirt up to expose her belly bulge. She has a closet of full of silks and satins and all she wears is my old t-shirts. "They say the more babies you have the faster you grow." God, I hope that juicy ass grows fast. I love a ripe pregnancy peach.

"You sound like I'm the old woman in the shoe."

"You're only on number three, you aren't an old shoe woman until six."

"You want six kids?"

"At least." I kiss my way down the slight swell of her belly. "I can't wait to tell everyone tomorrow." There's an odd moment of pride for a man when telling everyone about his wife's pregnancy. It's like an announcement to the world that he used his gun, aimed it right and his bullets were powerful enough to take out the target. Mine are even more powerful; I've beaten birth control. Twice.

"We should tell the kids tonight."

"You're right." Shit, I wonder how they'll react. Teddy was only a year-and-a-half when we told him about Phoebe. I remember we made a big deal of it, consulting Flynn and my mother about the psychological ramifications of a sibling announcement and all he did was fart, laugh at himself for said farting and continue eating his creamed corn. This time, we have two little people with two big personalities to contend with.

"Now, for our meeting, Mrs. Grey." I lean in and kiss her neck.

"Don't you have to practice your lines?"

"Don't worry, it's a kids play. It'll be a piece of cake."

#######

"I have thirty-seven pages of dialogue!" I say, flipping through the script in the dressing room as Taylor fits me with my costume. Dressing room being the art supply closet at the back of the nursery school classroom. We asked to use the office, but that fucker Andy Layman says he has an allergy to latex and the art room is where the gloves are stored, so he nabbed the principal's digs. No wonder he has four kids by four girlfriends, he told them all the same thing about the condoms.

"They've given you a good part, Mr. Grey," Taylor says, attaching some sort of suspenders to my billowing black pants. I'm not sure if they're supposed to be short and they're too long, or they're supposed to be long and they're too short. Whatever the case, they land at shin middle just over a pair of white tube socks that look like I'm channeling the luck of the colorblind Irish. "You're the leader of the Puritanical community, sir."

"Well, isn't that a pisser. Bet you never thought you'd hear that about me."

"No, sir. I did not."

"Don't they know I have a job other than this play?" I pace as I read, forcing Taylor to follow quickly behind me as he adjusts my straps. "This is like dialogue from a Broadway show, except not good."

"I was reading through it. It is quite catchy."

"Catchy as in jingle or disease?"

He looks at me, perplexed.

"It made me hum, sir."

"I've never heard you hum, Taylor."

"I only do it in private situations, sir." I don't want to know any more about what kind of situations Taylor has in private that make him hum.

I open my script to an odd page to practice my dialogue.

"Hear ye, hear ye, pilgrim childz, now we hunt turkeys in the wildz..." I pause. "What, am I supposed to rap this shit?"

"I think it's more like heightened rhyme, sir."

"What the hell is heightened rhyme?"

"Nursery rhymes, but more dramatic." What the fuck is he talking about? Humpty Dumpty is plenty dramatic for me. A guy shaped like an egg falls off a wall and his guts splat all over the place. I still don't know how that was approved for kids. It's right up there with the baby in the treetop cradle with the broken boughs.

Back to the page.

"The woodz is where we find our beast to pluck and serve for thankful feast."

Why the fuck do they end all the words with s's on here with z's? Even my character is named Mylez Standish. Why, just because it's rock-n-roll we have to be illiterate? I guess it goes with the name of the school. I swear if my children score low on their SATs because of spelling inaptitude due to improper z usage, I will blame this place.

"I like your interpretation, Mr. Grey. You make me want to see what's in the wilderness."

"Thank you, Taylor." It's an odd compliment, but I'll take it.

"How am I supposed to remember all this? There's a two page speech I make before the dinner alone!" Why does this Standish guy talk so fucking much? What a blowhard. Why not let the people eat before the food gets cold? "Is it really necessary for him to carve the turkey for four pages straight?"

"Isn't that when the children sing about the gift of maize?"

I look.

"You're right." Maybe he should play this part, he knows it so well. No, I don't want him to get the praise from Ana and the children. This is my show, damn it.

"I've agreed to stand in as a tree since Mr. Rothchild is ill."

"Ill?" I snicker "He got the clap from a street whore."

"Was he that good?" Is he kidding or serious? I can never tell.

"Gonorrhea, Taylor!" I say, probably a bit too loud for a nursery school environment.

"Well, whatever the case, I'll be taking his place. Why don't I hold the script and feed you the lines you forget, Mr. Grey."

Like all of them...

"Good idea."

"What do you think, sir?"

"I said good idea." Jesus, how much fucking reinforcement does this guy need?

"No, your costume."

Oh.

He points me to a wall mirror where I take in my pilgrim reflection. My face drops.

"This is it?"

"You look traditional, sir."

"I look like what happens when a leprechaun and a witch fuck and the witch convinces an Amish guy he's the father."

Taylor thinks about that one and frankly, so do I.

"This can't be what Myles, or rather Mylez..." I enunciate the z like a bee would. "...Standish looks like."

"This is classic pilgrim attire, sir," he says, straightening the leaning point on my top hat.

"Did that fucker Gunther Imperial do this costume?" I swear, after the Halloween debacle, I'm about ready to burn that idiot at the stake and I'm wearing the right costume for it.

"Yes, but I checked the Internet. This is the correct one."

He pulls out his phone and googles Standish to show me a picture of a real pilgrim. He's right, this is it. No wonder they went extinct.

There's a knock at the door.

"Yoo-hoo! Are you dressed, Mr. Grey?" It's Teach Tilly and she sounds like she hopes I'm not.

"Yes, what is it?" I ask, clipped and perturbed.

She peeks through the door and smiles too brightly when she sees me. She's dressed in a pilgrim getup of her own. God, that woman is atrocious, even in a black drape and a head covering bonnet. Or maybe especially so. With her hair covered, there's no distraction from her face.

"The show is starting shortly. I wanted to make sure you have everything you need." Is she winking at me or did a paint chip fall in her eye from the overhead supply shelf?

"Taylor supplies all my needs, thank you."

"I do." Taylor nods. We share an odd band of brothers-esque moment.

"Very well," Tilly says, adjusting her skirt, then her top area. I think she just squeezed her tits in my direction. "Just know, I'm proud to be your wife."

"My wife?" I'm sure the horror is evident on my face.

"I'm playing Mrs. Standish. I wanted to surprise you," she giggles like a flirting gargoyle.

"Wait, I thought I read somewhere his wife died." Saved by history! I knew I'd thank Harvard someday for something.

"That was Myles, you're Mylez. And you're all mine!" She smiles like the school girl she isn't and walks out.

"Taylor," I turn to him, dramatically. "We don't have a kissing scene, do we?"

"You and I, sir?"

"No, me and that she-wolf!"

"No, but you have seven children and a side hug." I briefly wonder how a side hug got him seven children, but I don't look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it's sparing me from Tilly's.

"When does it happen?"

"They're born along the way."

"Not the kids, the side hug."

"I believe it's when when you survive winter."

Kill me now.

"We'd better get you in position, sir. It's almost time."

We walk out the door and head for the stage, I try to memorize my lines along the way.

"Taylor, I think my suspenders are too tight. My lederhosen is up my ass."

"That's German, not Pilgrim, sir."

"Whatever, it's riding half way up the Americas!"

I stop just shy of the stage and he adjusts my straps and my ass can relax its fight with the fabric and breath again.

"Hey, bro!" My brother's voice calls from the too close distance.

Speaking of fabric up the ass, Elliot, Kavanagh and the photographer are all coming this way. I had a nightmare like this once.

"I like the pants," my brother says with a laugh that sounds like a donkey who just smoked a joint and remembered a joke he heard last Tuesday. He's dressed like a studly Native American chief in a suede vest with fringe everywhere. Why don't I get fringe?

"I like your moccasins," I say, bitter for my plight in this play. Why the fuck didn't I get the part of the chief? I take that back. These horny hippie mothers wouldn't be able to control themselves if I wore a vest.

"Katherine, Jose," I begrudgingly greet them with a nod.

"Cute hat, Christian," Kavanagh says, twisting her lips in snarky smile.

Jose lifts the camera hanging from a strap on his neck and snaps a photo of me. I wonder if I could accidentally twist that strap and strangle him.

"What's that for?" I ask as he continues the assault with his flash.

"I'm taking pictures. You know, documenting the event for Kate and for Ana." The lilt in his voice when he says Ana irritates me. "I want everyone to remember what you looked like today."

"Fantastic."

He snaps again.

"My father and I are really looking forward to dinner tomorrow."

"As am I." I'm more looking forward to the look on his face when we tell him about baby number three. If that's not the final nail in his snap happy coffin, I don't know what is.

"Christian!" Ana says, coming up behind me. I turn and she gives me a quick kiss, which I immediately deepen for the photographer's benefit. "You look so cute."

I know it's a lie, but she makes me smile.

"And you look so beautiful. I can't wait to get you home to our bed, rip this little dress off you, my _wife_ , and ravage your body all night long." I kiss her again.

"Christian," she pulls away, flushed with embarrassment. "There are people around."

"I know." I look pointedly at the photographer.

"Everyone, take your seats," Tilly says over a muffled loud speaker that screeches and hums as she talks. "The show is about to begin." She's four fucking feet away from everyone. Why is she using a loud speaker when she'd be louder without it?

"We better find our seats," Jose says to Ana.

"No need, I'll find her a seat."

I take an empty folding chair from the end of the front row, move it over a few feet and motion to it for her to sit.

"It's like a box seat at the opera."

"Christian, don't be silly. I'm sitting next to my friends." She gives me a kiss on the cheek and she, Jose and Kavanagh all take off together. How can I concentrate on my lines when the photographer's knee may knock against my wife's out there in the dark?

"Daddy, look!" Phoebe says, coming up behind me, pulling a turkey on a leash.

"Phoebe, be careful!" I grab the leash from her.

"Don't worry, I'm watching them," some fat, really old guy in overalls says on approach. He's got the words _Turkey Heaven_ stitched on his huge front pocket, with smaller words below that read: _We send them there so you're dinner tastes like it._

"Is that your tag line?" I point to the wording.

"Yep, thought of it myself." He's actually proud of that fact.

"Who are you and why did you give a turkey to my daughter?"

"He's in the show, Daddy! I make all his sounds." She blows her whistle.

"I'm Del," he reaches out a hand for me to shake that I ignore. "I own the farm this one comes from. Don't worry, he's a tame one." He laughs and leans in to me. "He won't know what's coming tomorrow."

"What's coming tomorrow, Daddy?"

Uh...

"Thanksgiving."

"He doesn't know it's coming?"

"No, it's a surprise."

The lights flicker. I turn to see Tilly just flipping the light switch on and off really fast. I swear that woman missed her calling in the circus or reality television. I hand the leash back to Phoebe.

"Get into position, Phoebe."

"I am."

"Right, well just stand there and wait." I turn to Del. "And you wait back here and keep an eye on this beast." I swear if this thing hurts my Phoebe, Del is deader than a door nail. Although, I don't want him too close to her, either. "Further back than that, Del," I add and he steps aside.

Finally, the lights go off and the recorded music starts. Then stops. Tilly fixes the stereo with two whacks to the woofer and it starts again.

Fuck. It's show time.

 _ **To be continued...**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**So sorry for the delay! I got backed up with Thanksgiving of my own. I so appreciate your patience. Part III should be here by Sun. It should be a lot of fun! Hope everyone had a Happy Thanksgiving and it was less crazy than the one Christian is having! xo**_

"The pilgrimz is coming! The pilgrimz is coming!" Phoebe shouts, running across the stage with that monstrous bird on a leash, like the Paula Revere of Thanksgiving; while the pilgrims and I make our progress on a ship headed for the new world. Ship being a cardboard cutout of a boat that looks a lot like the fire engine front they used for _"stop, drop and roll"_ week, only painted over blue, the wheels haphazardly cut off, and a sail stapled to the top. There are certain big questions a man asks along the way in his life. How the hell did Christian Grey end up in charge of manning the Mayflower, is one.

The turkey whistle blows, which could only mean one thing...

"We've reached the Americaz!" I say, calling out to the crowd with me aboard- or rather just standing behind- the Mayflower; and they go wild. I have to pretend like I'm steering this ship and navigating us across choppy waters. Talk about a workout; I haven't done this much bending and bobbing since Ana and I took that trip to Napa where we never left the en suite hot tub. I wonder if that's where she got pregnant...

Memories of bath time and baby making are halted when I feel something strange crawling up my leg. It's hard to describe; it's like a tarantula who shaved himself and all the hair is growing back at different rates is trying to set up house on my leg. When I look down, I see that it's worse; Tilly's ankle is rubbing up against my knee sock. Jesus, this woman is relentless. At every turn she tries something with me. First, it was her fingers playing tip-toe games across my hip when we were being religiously persecuted; then it was her chest brushing my bicep when we set sail; now this. It's like she's mistaken the Mayflower for the Love Boat.

"Your ankle is moving up and down my leg," I whisper.

"Sorry, husband," she whispers back. "My foot slipped."

"Twenty-seven times?"

She winks. Her makeup looks so gargoyle today she should set up residence on top of Notre Dame. Oh wait, she's not wearing any. Suddenly, I'm wishing for the stubble-backed tarantula.

"Step on the rock!" Harry Funkle- idiot father to the notoriously sticky-fingered Funkle five- says way too loud and a line too soon. We haven't even made it off the damn ship yet to see the rock, how the fuck can I step on it? I give him a look that I'm sure his wife gives him when he gets his own rocks off too soon at home. I know it's a play on his name, but anyone who calls his hardware store _Fun Unkle's_ has some serious issues. I'm just glad Ana never worked there.

Speaking of Ana, I scan the audience in search of my girl. I see my goddess sandwiched between my two favorite people in the world- Kavanagh and the photographer. Fitting, it's Thanksgiving and there are two turkeys front and center- Gobble Dee and Gobble Dum. They didn't even need the one Phoebe has on that leash; they could've just used Jose. I would've liked to drag him around by the neck, pluck his feathers, and serve him for dinner.

I notice the fucker's left foot it far too close to Ana's right for my liking. He drops his program and bends to pick it up, in an obvious move to get his lips in the vicinity of her calf. Is he sniffing her leg?! I know that fucker's game. Returning to an upright position, he whispers something and she laughs. What the fuck is he saying? No one makes my girl laugh, but me! I'm about to jump ship- literally- and make his foot kiss his face and his laugh kiss his ass, when Ana re-crosses her legs away from him, gives me a thumbs up and mouths "good job" for my thespianic endeavor. When she blows a kiss, my knees nearly buckle. Seven years and 2.25 kids later, she still makes me swoon.

"It's your line, sir!" I hear Taylor whisper-call to me from somewhere outside my ship in the cardboard forest of the Americas. There are so many of trees, I can't tell which one he is. They're all big and green and look just like him. "Dock the ship!"

Oh right. I wonder if the audience can hear him. Whatever, maybe they'll think it's the voice of God giving me divine prophesy or something.

"Our Mayflower ship that's sailed now dockz, for we have reached dear Plymoth Rockz," I say, pointing to the big rock ahead that's been smack dab in the middle of the stage since we left from Europe, but we're just recognizing now.

Light beams down from the heavens. Or rather, a flashlight that little Jimmy Carmichael shines down from his perch above us. He's supposed to spotlight the rock, but instead points it directly on some kid picking his nose and waving to his mother. Tilly makes a harried hand gesture with her hairy hand at Jimmy, and grunts a directive one could only detect by sonar. But, I guess Jimmy speaks Whale, because the flashlight moves to the rock.

I pretend to park the ship by picking it up and throwing it back stage.

"Fuck!" I, and all the horrified parents and laughing kids, hear Elliot yell out from somewhere behind the stage right side of the forest. I guess I hit him. Not sure why this delights me so. Probably because I'm still bitter he gets to wear the fringe vest.

"Go forth!" I lead my people to the promised land and a gigantic piece of spray painted foam rubber that's supposed to be the rock we all put or feet on. I'm told that, aside from the big dinner, this is the big moment in the Thanksgiving play. Is it just me, or were these pilgrims just a bonnet and curtain clothed cult with a repressed foot fetish?

"Step on the rock!" Harry blurts out again. I should've thrown this fucker off the ship when I had the chance.

I place my foot on the foam, careful not to press down too hard for fear that the squishy boulder will flatten into a pancake and history will have to be rewritten.

The pilgrim crowd cheers; so does the audience. Jesus, it's like they've never seen a man step on a rock before. Then again, maybe they never have.

The pilgrim children circle around me, clasping hands, and singing a song about the promise of a new day. New day. All I can think about as my ass cheek clenches and a cramp threatens to cease up my groin from holding my foot above this rock for the entirety of this song, is when this one is ending.

The words of a new day are stuck in my head now, so I forget what comes after this damn song. I look around for Taylor.

"Go to the woodz," Taylor says, like the voice of God, and I jump. I didn't realize he was directly behind me. He really blends into the bark.

"Stop sneaking up on me like that," I whisper out of the side of my mouth.

"I can't sneak up. I'm a tree."

Oh right.

"The woodz!" I declare with a victorious fist in the air and my people follow me as we pretend to move forward with exaggerated motions, but never really go anywhere. The lighting just gets darker and darker the farther we're supposed to be inside the forest and then we just stop. That's probably what sex with Tilly is like.

"I've got the chillz!" Teddy yells out, shivering like an electric jolt just hit him. He stops momentarily and looks up at me. "Did I do okay, Daddy?"

I give him a thumbs up. So much for not breaking character. But, at least he got his big line right.

"The snowz. The snowz. The snowz," the pilgrim kids chant and all chatter their teeth dramatically. They look more like they're eating corn-on-the-cob than freezing.

A harsh winter's snow begins to fall down, or rather the remnants of a hole puncher gone mad from a box that little Jimmy Carmichael is shaking from his perch overhead. Who is this kid? And why did they put a seven-year-old in charge of all the special effects? Aren't there child labor laws against this?

"Winter'z here!" I proclaim. Those fucking round pieces of paper are stuck in my hair, on my hat rim and clothes, and keep getting in my mouth when I say my lines.

"The windz. The windz. The windz," the kids say, as Jimmy points a gigantic fan at us at full speed. He's trying to mimic a blizzard, but the effect is more like when a dog sticks his head out the window on the highway instead of a perilous snowstorm.

"Go forth, for beyond the chillz and bitter windz is the peace at the endz," I say, pointing forward toward what's supposed to be a better day ahead, but is really just a kid holding a piece of cardboard with rainbow stripes and a sun drawn on it. I don't know what the hell my line infers. Does it mean the storm stops, or that we're put out of our misery and we all meet our maker at the pearly gates? Whatever the case, I'm supposed to make slow, exaggerated motions, pretending to fight my way through the storm as my brethren huddle behind me and follow. Tilly's clutching to my arm like it's her last Mr. Goodbar. I don't like arm clutching in general, but it's especially disturbing when it's Tilly.

Suddenly the stage is rushed by six preschoolers in green felt costumes with big biting alligator teeth that look like they escaped a science experiment gone terribly wrong. They attack half the population behind me, causing them to drop to the floor.

"The germz. The germz. The germz." The choir's at it again as the simulation of disease that wiped most of the pilgrim population out that first harsh winter is being reenacted. This all seems quite gruesome for a school play.

"Ewww, those are the boogers!" some little girl behind me yells, completely breaking character.

"Cool, boogers!" Teddy says.

"It's not boogers, it's pestilence," I whisper down to him.

"Like on your sweater?"

"What?" I'm suddenly glad this attack is so gruesome and loud, so the audience can't hear our conversation.

"Like pesty lints stuck on your sweaters."

"No, Teddy it's the plague."

"What's that?"

"It's a bug you don't want to catch."

"Ewww, bugs!" the girl screams again.

Before I can answer further, a germ attacks Tilly. She clamps her arms around mine, like The Claw, and tries to pull me closer. I fight to get away, but she's surprisingly strong. Maybe she just has better footing because she's so wide and low to the ground.

"Oh husband, I am illz," Tilly says, falling dramatically to the floor, and with one swift tug, taking me down with her. I scramble to get away, but her talons are digging into my forearm. I think she wants me on bended knee at her side, but there's no way I'm getting onto my knees to do anything with Tilly. "Husband, I don't know if I will survive another snowz. I need a kiss before I goez."

"I don't want to catch what you have," I say, as I jump off of her and move away.

"Is Miss Tilly the plague, Daddy?" Teddy whispers.

"Yes," I whisper back.

The carnage is done as more snow falls on the dead and the dying. One dead girl can't stop giggling.

"Oh woez!" I cry out. I don't know what the fuck that means. I think I'm verbalizing my tears. "Heavenz above and hell belowz. We can't bear even one more snowz!"

"One more snowz. One more snowz. One more snowz," the kids chant almost in unison, except for one boy that is continually a beat behind and poses each line as a question rather than a statement. Is that my ex son-in-law Albert Pott?! I swear if he lays one hand on Phoebe again, I'll kill him.

Then the floodgates open and Jimmy dumps the entire contents of his box onto the crowd, but since I'm directly under him and taller than the rest, mostly just on me.

The kids keep up their chanting. They've said "one more snowz" so many times, I wonder at what point one becomes two.

"Look to the dawn'z early light!" Taylor calls out. He always knows when I forget my line.

I step forward and the little children circle around again. With all this circling, you'd think one of them would get dizzy and drop. But, I guess kids are used to running circles around fathers. Wait, I spoke too soon. Some kid just spit up on my shoe.

"Sorrys, I burped up my tater tots," he says and I try to ignore it all.

"It's alwayz darkest 'fore the dawnz." We collectively turn and face an imaginary dawn. "One more snowz and we'll see the mornz."

"Sunz!" Taylor says, with an aggressive rustle.

"Sunz!" I repeat.

Winter is declared over as ten little pilgrim children carry a banner of a crayon drawn sunrise across the stage. All the dead ones on the floor get up and run off, trying to hide behind the banner as they escape.

"We have survived!" I proclaim and the lights go up to their highest on this new day, nearly blinding everyone who lived to see it.

The kids break into a chorus of _Here Comez the Sunz_ a la the Beatles, but with a puritanical twist. With the z's! I want to point out that the 'z' placement there indicates there's more than one sun, but I keep my mouth shut, so as not to prolong this hell with questions.

Speaking of hell...

"Husband!" Tilly calls, holding a hand out for me to help her up. Like a true cockroach, she's survived.

Oh god, this is the moment Taylor warned me about; this is when Tilly goes in for the celebratory side hug after our mutual winter survival.

"Husband!" she's more insistent and her eyes wilder. "I can't get up by myself." This is probably true, due to her aforementioned wide and low status.

I move to help her up. As she gets upright, she reaches her free arm out in wrap-around fashion. But, before she can attack, I position myself behind Taylor's branches. She's going to have to fight limb-for-limb to get those suction cupped tentacles around me. This tree's been to war and won.

Phoebe, Ava and the rest of the Wampanoag kids rush the stage doing Indian calls and some sort of tribal dance. I'm not sure if they're attacking or having a party. Whatever the case, the Indians have infiltrated the colony and pilgrims have to look startled.

"Let's go back to the rock!" Harry Funkle yells out. What a moron.

"The great-" Phoebe and Ava say at once.

"That's my line!" Ava says, pushing Phoebe.

"It's my line!" Phoebe says, pushing back.

"Who says?"

"Me!"

As casually as possible I scoot away from my people and pull the two tribal girls apart before civil war breaks out.

"Why don't you say your line together and bring peace to your tribe?"

"I don't want peas, I wanna say my lines!" Phoebe huffs.

"I don't want peas, either," Ava says, scrunching up her nose in disgust.

"Good, you're united on something, say your line together."

"The great chief is herez," they begrudgingly say, with no fanfare, in unison. I guess we could call this 'the great _peas_ accord'.

Oh fuck. My brother's the chief. Seventeen pages of dialogue with him until the Thanksgiving feast. We have five pages by the river, alone. That's where we're supposed to bond over bait hooks and the kids sing about making new friendz and keeping the oldz.

"Ho! Who goes there?" Elliot says to me as he takes the stage as the studly Native American chief with the fringe. I can here Kate whistle in the audience.

"It's not ho, it's how," I whisper.

"Oh right," he whispers back, though not quite as discreetly. "How goes there?"

What an idiot. I roll my eyes.

"The chief would like to say the most importantist things for awhile!" Phoebe says- taking broad liberties with her line- and blows her horn. I'm going to have the sound of that turkey whistle in my nightmares until I'm dead.

All eyes turn to Chief Elliot. He just stands there for several moments, saying nothing. Moments turn into minutes and we're all pin-drop silent, waiting for him to say something profound, but nothing ever happens. Art imitating life.

Finally...

"Let's eat!" he says, throwing his hands in the air.

The kids cheer.

What the fuck? He's just skipped all the way to Thanksgiving dinner!

"What are you doing?" I ask, as the kids run around celebrating the early arrival of dinner. "You were supposed to take me to woods to hunt turkeys and teach us how to plant corn!" We didn't till or toil or see the fruits of our labor. We didn't even get our moment by the river. "We can't give thanks for nothing!"

"Lighten up and eat, man," he shakes his head, puts Ava on his shoulders and joins the kids in their celebration. Oh sure, he's the popular one. Just because he took all the work out of dinner.

Colored paper leaves start to rain down in buckets worse than the snow.

"What's with the leaves?"I ask Taylor, spitting out one that flies in my mouth.

"It's fall."

"It can't be fall already! It was just spring!" Makes me wonder, much like in real life, where the summer went.

Phoebe pulls her Turkey from off-stage and blows the whistle another fifty-seven times.

"Thanksgiving'z coming! Thanksgiving'z coming!" she shouts and the turkey flaps his wings, as if on cue.

The children start in on a song of thankfulness sung to the tune of _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_. We've jumped forward so much in time, we're already there?

A table full of plastic vegetables; pumpkins leftover from Halloween with Jack-o-lantern faces drawn on the sides not facing the audience; and a cornucopia full of what else- corn, is pushed to center stage. The turkey flaps his wings as the kids grab for him and lift him onto the table, putting him smack dab in the middle of the spread. Why the hell a live turkey is standing on the table is beyond me. Are we supposed to be eating the thing or did we just invite him to dinner and we didn't have an extra seat? Maybe he's just decoration. I hope he doesn't shit on the potatoes.

Everyone sits around the miraculously-harvested-with-no-work-put-forth bounty and bows their heads in prayer, waiting for me to say something. Unlike Elliot, I'm not about to shirk on my dialogue responsibilities. I stand at the head of the table about to make my four page speech of blessing on the bird we're about to eat that's still alive, when I feel something crawling up my leg. I look down and see something small and furry and wearing a head dress eating those lost tater tots off my foot. And this time, it's not Tilly.

Oh fuck. Chester the papoose is on the loose. Stay calm, Grey. Just keep in character.

"Now we stand before the feastz to eat the meatz of this beastz." I give the bird an apologetic nod.

I try not to laugh as Chester crawls up my leg, but I can't stop my gyrations from the tickle.

"This maize and fowl we graze with thankz..."

Fuck, Chester has made his way into the cornucopia and is grazing, himself; chewing on acorns and kernels of dried colored corn. Maybe I can turn it over and trap him under it until after the show. No, the whole audience will see me do that and think I've gone mad. Not like they especially think I'm sane right now, but once the cornucopia is flipped, Thanksgiving is over.

Maybe he'll just stay and graze on the maize...

I spoke too soon. He's on the move again.

"Give thanks for your new friendz!" Taylor shouts from the bark. He thinks I forgot my line, when I'm really just watching Chester travel over some pumpkins. Luckily everyone's eyes at the table are closed and the turkey is blocking Chester from audience view. It's just me vs. rodent right now.

"We graze with thankz for all those far and all those near and for our new friendz who brought us here."

A rather impervious friend is on Tilly's dinner plate, just staring up at the closed eyed she-wolf, chomping his teeth. Wise hamster; he knows that's where the majority of the food will be heaped.

"For we survived the chill windz and snowz..."

Oh fuck, Chester's on the move again. He scampers over to the turkey, then under the turkey, sniffing his upturned tail feathers.

"Trouble has left you!" Taylor says. Oh no, it hasn't. Trouble hasn't even started yet.

"For all our troublez left us nowz."

Chester is now entirely up under the turkey's butt. If I were doing this to some turkey, I'd be arrested.

"For peace has come to our new landz..."

Chester opens his mouth. I know that look in his eyes. I've seen it right before he attacks.

"And friendz and foez will all hold handz..." I can tell you one that won't, and it's about to strike turkey flesh.

Everyone moves to hold hands. I try to shoo Chester away with a rogue acorn, but Tilly clamps down on my hand before I can.

Then...

 _Chomp_!

The turkey shrieks, flapping his wings and flying all over the table.

"Ahhhh! It's a rat!" Tilly screams as Chester scurries along he wood edge of the table, trying to escape with a small ear of corn. I have to applaud Chester on that one.

There are screams from the audience in response to the mayhem on the stage.

"That's not a rat! That's Chester!" Phoebe says, chasing the furry fucker as he escapes through the forest.

"Do something!" I say to Taylor.

"I can't, sir. I'm a tree." He points to a rope tying him to the wall. "I have to be unattached."

I look to Elliot who's just laughing at the chaos going on around him, like it's a day at the circus. I guess that's how marriage with Kavanagh lasts; he likes circus acts.

Where the fuck is farmer Del? I thought he was supposed to watch this beast.

I decide to take matters into my own hands. I jump onto the table, throw my arms around the turkey and hold him down.

"Look, Uncle Christian's hugging the turkey!" Ava says and the kids clap.

"He used to choke his chicken in junior high all the time," Elliot says. What a fucking idiot.

"Is this part of the show?" Harry Funkle asks. As in life, nobody pays attention to him.

The bird starts flapping his wings in my face, so I can't see anything past ass feathers. When I try to hold the wings down, I feel something stab my hand. He's pecking me! And not one little love peck; machine gun assault multiples.

"God dam-" the kids all look at me. "I mean Dagnabbit!" I say, as blood drops from my hand. I wonder if this thing had its rabies shot. I can't hold his slippery feathers any longer. With one strong flap, he's free again.

As he runs, his claw catches on the basket weave of the cornucopia and he pulls it with him, dragging it in such a way it wipes nearly everything off the table. He wobble-runs for the edge. I try to grab him, but I can't reach. As he jumps off the table at the screaming audience, the cornucopia goes flying, sending ears of corn all over the crowd. It's like a 3D movie come to life.

"This is the most exciting Thanksgiving play ever!" Teddy says.

I was right; once the cornucopia is flipped, Thanksgiving is over.

#######

"You did so, good kids," Ana says as Teddy and Phoebe run into her waiting arms. "So did you, Daddy." Ana gives me a kiss on the lips, then one to my bandaged pecker wound.

"Well, at least I survived." Barely. I'm going to have beak and bite marks for weeks. And I think I'm missing a chunk of hair in the back from when the turkey got a mouthful in our wrestle.

"Did you meet my turkey friend, mommy?" Phoebe asks.

"I saw him; he's a very sweet bird."

Sweet? He destroyed the stage, ruined the first Thanksgiving dinner and nearly took off half my arm. I can't blame him totally, though. Chester is the real culprit. I go crazy when he chomps my flesh, too. I'm glad the papoose is tied up on Phoebe's back again.

"Yo, bro," Elliot says as he walks toward me with Kavanagh and Mr. Third Wheel America himself- the photographer. Every time I see them, they're coming at me in a group. Like locusts. "Fun playing out there with you."

"You skipped all of the scenes we were in!"

"You don't need to thank me."

"I wasn't."

Ava's chasing some screaming boy and Elliot takes off after her. She's so much like her mother.

"Ana, Jose and I are going to get stuff for Thanksgiving tomorrow," Kavanagh says, with a snarl. If Snagglepuss was a person, she'd be it.

"Who says?"

"Me." She gives me that snarky look that's like her regular face, but in high definition. "I think Ana can go to the Whole Foods by herself, Christian."

"She wouldn't be by herself, she'd be be with you." I stare her down. Don't try me, Kavanagh.

"I'll be there, too," the photographer pipes up.

"And I'm sure you'll bring your camera." To photograph Ana and her melons.

"Yeah, I'm going to take pre-Thanksgiving photos."

"What does that mean?"

"You know, getting ready for our big day."

"This isn't your "our, it's my "our"! I point to Ana. "And more importantly, it's "our" "our."

Everyone looks at me like I'm speaking Swahili.

"Excuse us as second." I pull my wife to the side. "Where did you get the crazy idea you have to buy food for Thanksgiving?"

"Do I have really have to answer that question?"

"You know what I mean, Gail and Taylor buy all that." I pick off a feather that's stuck to my sweaty brow. I try to bat it away, but it just stays floating in the air by my face, in taunt. "You're my wife and I don't want you spending your time in some grocery store."

"I wish he was my husband," some harried housewife, holding a kid on each hip, says as she passes.

"Christian, we're just shopping for a cheese plate selection and some crudités."

"Taylor can buy crudités. He's well seasoned on crudités selections. He's like the crudités King." It's odd, but true. He's supplied many a last minute business cocktail party with his platters.

"I want to pick out my own crudités."

"What's to pick out? They're vegetables, it's not that exciting!"

"I thought Taylor loves it."

"Taylor likes un-exciting things. He's worked for me for ten years. Most of his time is spent waiting in a parked car."

"What about the cheese?"

"He can pick that out, too."

"I want to spend time with my best friend, who happens to be your sister-in-law." Yeah, by the stoke of Satan's brush.

"Fine, but why does Jose have to go?"

"He's going to carry stuff. You don't want me heavy lifting now, do you?" she strokes her belly. She knows that's my weak spot.

"How much cheese are you going to buy?

She rolls her eyes. She's doing it on purpose, because she knows I can't spank her and fuck her in a nursery school bathroom. Well, I could, but...

"Jose just wants to be involved."

"That's what I'm worried about." Involved in looking up her skirt while she bends over to select a smelly Brie.

"I'll be home in an hour." She gives me a kiss and goes off with her friends.

"Looking forward to tomorrow, Christian!" The photographer says, waving.

"So am I." Fucker. I'm going to steal that camera off his neck and flash photos of his face when he finds out about baby number three. Doesn't anyone find it odd that he's almost thirty and he's never had a relationship with anyone other than his camera?

"Come on kids," I say to Phoebe and Teddy, ushering them to the elevator. "Let's go."

"My turkey friend!" Phoebe shouts, pointing at Del who's walking by with that turkey on his leash. She runs over to them.

"Phoebe, enough with that bird!" I chase after her, with Teddy close behind.

"Sorry about your injuries, Mr. Grey," Del says. Fucker.

"Thank you, Del. I'm sorry you couldn't break yourself away from the donut box to manage your bird."

"No problem."

"I love you, Mr. Turkey!" Phoebe says, kissing it on the head.

"Don't kiss the bird," I pull her back. "You don't know where he's been sticking his head." Maybe I should've given Kavanagh that advice about Elliot before the wedding.

"Gotta take this guy back to the farm," Del says.

"No!" Phoebe says, falling to her knees and hugging that bird like it's her brother. Come to think of it, she's never hugged Teddy that way. Maybe Chester.

"Phoebe, the turkey needs to go home," I say, bending down and trying to get her to move, but she won't budge.

"Can I visit him, Daddy?" Phoebe asks.

"Yeah, Dad! Can we go see him on the farm?" I bet it's real dirty there and has got bugs!" Teddy says, excitedly. This kid and dirt!

"Sure, we can-"

"Sorry, kids," Del buts in. "He won't be visitable tomorrow." Visitable? This guy needs to shut his fucking mouth with a staple gun.

"Why not?" Phoebe asks.

"Because he'll be busy with his acting career," I say. "Kids, wave bye-bye to the bird and turkey man and let's go get ice cream." When all else is failing, try ice cream.

"Acting career," Del laughs. "Yep, he sure is going to be the star at Thanksgiving tomorrow." This fucker won't shut up!

"He's in another play tomorrow?" Teddy asks.

"Can we see it?" Phoebe asks.

"No, we have Thanksgiving at our house. We'll catch him when he goes on the road. Kids, let's go."

Del laughs again. "No, tomorrow he's not in a show. He's dinner."

Phoebe screams bloody murder. The whole place stops and turns. That girl has a blood curdler straight out of a horror flick.

"Farmer's going to kill our turkey!" Teddy says, starting to cry.

"Why the hell did you tell them that?" I ask Del as Phoebe and Teddy, both now in tears, cling to the bird.

Tilly rushes over. Oh god. Not now.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"This idiot told my kids that their friend is going to be dinner!"

"I told them he's going to be a nice dinner. It was a compliment to the bird."

It's taking all my self control not to attack this fucker!

"Let me talk to them, Mr. Grey," Tilly says, bending over to them in a frog-like squat. Well, at least she's supposedly a professional with kids, maybe she'll know what to say.

"Remember how I told you it's a special day for turkeys?" she asks. They nod, sniffling. "You know why that is?" The kids shrug.

"'Cause they're cute?" Phoebe asks.

Tilly smiles and shakes her head.

"It's because they provide dinner for nice families like you."

"Ahhh!" Phoebe screams again, now holding onto my leg in a vice grip. Now, I know officially that Tilly isn't a professional at anything but eating and keeping the lawn on her legs, and probably everything else south of the naval boarder, un-manicured.

"Are you people crazy?"

"Mr. Grey, it's a fact of life," she says. "Nobody gets a happy ending just because they want one." With that tone, I think she's speaking from experience.

"Nobody makes my children cry and gets away with it!"

"Mr. Grey, I know you mean well, but they have to know their father can't just wave his magic wand and make everything good for them. There are some things you just have no control over."

I glare at her. Those are fighting words.

#######

"Sir, what are you doing with the turkey?" Taylor asks, opening the door to the SUV for the kids and I, and this bird on a leash as we leave the school.

"Don't ask," I say, looking down at the new Grey family pet. $5000 dollars later and he's mine. That Del was so pissed at me, he kept upping the price; but, I'm never outbid.

"What should we name him, Daddy?"

"Killer." Another fucker that wants a taste of my flesh. It's like I collect them. Hell, I may be impractical-crazy even- but nobody makes my kids cry and tells them I can't make everything better.

"How about Stan?" Teddy asks.

"Why Stan?"

He shrugs. "I like Stan."

"What's his tag say?" Phoebe asks, pointing to a round white tag attached to a wing feather.

"Reserved for Boone," I read. I guess the Boone family won't be having turkey this year.

Taylor opens the back door and I lift the thing inside.

"Let's call him that!" Phoebe says and Teddy nods in agreement.

Boone the turkey. I shake my head.

"Daddy, you're the best daddy ever!" Phoebe says, giving me a big kiss on the cheek as I shut the door; I smile. There's nothing better in life than making my kids happy. Even if it means more flesh wounds for Dad.

"Can he sleep in my bed?" she asks.

"No! He sleeps in the barn."

"But, it's cold out there."

"We'll put in a space heater."

"And a sofa?"

"A sofa?"

"He needs somewhere soft to sit when he watches TV." Jesus, this turkey is going to have a luxury apartment. He's certainly moved on up; he's like the poultry version of the Jeffersons.

"I wonder if he can skate board," Teddy says, as we all climb into the car.

"You're not putting the turkey on a skate board!" I say, buckling them in and closing the door.

"What about my train?"

"He's twelve times bigger than your train set. It'll be like Godzilla's attacking."

"I know!" he says, with wide eyed excitement.

As we take off for home, I get a text from Ana. Fuck. Ana's going to kill me.

I read the text- " _I'm afraid we won't have enough meat for everyone. Can you pick up an extra turkey on your way home?"_

She has no idea.

I lean my head back on the rest and close my eyes. I just want to get through this day and survive Thanksgiving tomorrow in one piece. And just as I begin to relax, there's a turkey beak tickling my ear.

 ** _To be continued in Part III..._**


	3. Chapter 3

_**There is still one part after this. I wasn't finished with the last half, and since I promised you a Sunday post, I thought I'd give you this part. I'll post the last part in the next two days. And then back to Darker. And for everyone asking for the baby story, I will get back to that, but the holidays have taken up my time. Thank you soooooo much for your wonderful reviews and your Thanksgiving wishes! I read every one. I am truly thankful for you all. xoxo**_

"When I told you to get a turkey, I didn't mean one that fresh!" Ana says, stepping out of her R8 and stopping me in my tracks as I lead our new pet on his leash down the driveway, toward the yard. I thought I could put him in the barn and ease into the discussion of his presence; maybe after dinner, or post-Christmas or when the kids went to college. I didn't know we'd get home at the same time and I'd be caught fowl handed. We should've never stopped for double scoops of mint chip when we had a turkey to smuggle inside.

"I can explain." Although, I really can't without sounding completely insane, but I guess she's used to that by now. "We're not eating this turkey. He's an actor and he's coming to live with us."

She gives me the look I expected. Before I can explain further, Phoebe comes barreling out of the SUV and runs to her mother.

"Mommy, I'm so excited! We're gonna have a brother!" She hugs her leg.

"Yeah, and we're gonna call him Boone!" Teddy says, following after her and hugging the other one.

Ana shoots me a look that could carve the bird that's pecking mine.

"Did you tell them, Christian?" she whisper-shouts my way as they start to run circles around her.

"About what?" I mouth back.

She puts a hand on her belly.

"No!" Honestly, she thinks I'd just drop the bombshell of the baby-to-be on the kids without her? "This is the brother they're referring to." I point to the turkey. "His name is Boone."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I, Ana. Neither do I."

"Mommy, Daddy saved his life!" Teddy says.

"Yeah, I was telling my brother Boone goodbye," Phoebe says, reenacting her bye-bye wave. "But, he wasn't family yet, just a turkey I liked." I think Kavanagh said that about my brother once and vice-versa. "And I tell him- I'll visit you, friend, and I'm gonna see all your shows..." She's rather good at this reenactment. "...and mean old farmer man said he wasn't gonna be in no more shows, and I asked why, 'cause I think he's a good actor, and he said he was gonna make Boone the star of dinners." She takes a breath. "And I was so sad. I cried lunch boxes and lunch boxes of tears. Prolly so many it would be as many as if you squished the oceans all together."

"And Daddy got in a fight with farmer Del and told him to sit on the turkey whistle and spin around like he does on his favorite toy at home, and then he writed him a check for a gazillion dollars...,"Teddy adds, "...so he wouldn't chop his head off. Then, turkey became our brother and we named him after the family that was supposed to eat him."

What the hell was all that? I feel like I just ran a word marathon, but my brain never even passed go.

"You're exaggerating, Teddy. It wasn't a gazillion dollars. Just $5,000." Of course that doesn't include the cost of converting the barn into an upscale studio apartment, complete with a sun deck, a claw-footed bath tub with constant bubbles and a small gym so he doesn't get fat in retirement from the stage. Phoebe drew up the plans when we stopped for ice cream. I gave it to Taylor to make it happen. He's going to the Pottery Barn on Friday.

Ana doesn't say anything for a moment; she just stares at me, processing the overload of information she's just been given. Then, without a word, she walks over to me. I close my eyes in preparation for pain, much like I did in my teen years when I heard the magnum vibrator coming. I'm about ready for her to let me have it, when I feel her sweet, soft lips kiss my cheek. I open my eyes and see her beautiful smiling face.

"What was that for?" I touch my cheek her kiss just left. She's left a gloss mark; I swoon.

"For being the father of my children." She puts her hand on mine. Her loving touch makes me feel like the greatest man alive. After we share a moment, she turns to the kids. "Why don't you help Daddy put your new brother in the barn."

They cheer and both grab for the leash, nearly pulling my bandaged pecker injured hand off in the process. But, I don't care; my family is happy and I'm responsible for it.

"I wanna hold him," Phoebe says.

"No, I wanna," Teddy shouts back. "Why should you get him? You got him all day!"

"'Cause I have _sperience_."

"What's that?"

"I already know how to do the job. We can't afford any mistakes with a new hire."

"I think she's been listening to me when I'm on the phone in my office," I whisper in Ana's ear and she giggles. Oh, what a lovely sound.

"Mommy's going to take a shower now," Ana says with a look to me that means she's up to the devil's business. "Daddy, you may be dirty afterwards. You should shower, too."

"Oh yes, I feel quite dirty already. I know I'll be filthy later." I raise a brow.

She smiles and heads into the house. God, her ass is glorious; that pregnancy peach is juicing up already.

"Come on kids, let's hurry," I say, leading them barn-ward. "Daddy needs a shower real bad."

#######

I hold up an egg in one hand and a piece of bacon in the other.

"When a woman...," I motion to the egg. "...is very much in love and happily married to a man her father approves of and she's at least thirty," I point to the bacon. "She and her husband love each other extra special one night, this egg cooks for nine months and out comes a beautiful breakfast family."

The kids stare at me dumbfounded, sitting across from Ana and I at the kitchen nook, as I explain the miracle of life using our breakfast selections.

"Is bacon and eggs where babies come from?" Phoebe asks, crinkling her nose like Ana does when I do something extra peculiar and she's trying figure me out.

"No, what your father means is when two people in love come together-"

"Ana! Don't tell them about all that!"

"About all what?"

I put a hand around my mouth so the kids can't see and whisper, " _Coming_ together."

Ana rolls her eyes.

"Is bacon, people?" Phoebe asks, looking at the strip in her hand. "He doesn't look like peoples. He's got no eyes or boogers. And if you got no boogers, how can you be a peoples?" She's got a point there.

"No, a bacon strip is not a person!" I say.

"If you cook an egg for nine months you get a baby?" Teddy asks, scratching his head like it's a lottery ticket and he's trying to match up three numbers for a prize. Either that or he's got lice.

"There's babies in my eggs!" Phoebe screams, looking down at her breakfast in horror and pushing away her plate.

"No, Phoebe," Teddy snorts, just like I do when I know someone's obviously mistaken, which is all the time when I'm out in society. When did these two little people become just like us? "Mrs. Taylor didn't cook it for nine months. It was only like maybe four or seventy-seven minutes."

"Maybe it's a really really really little baby and in nine munts it'll explode in my belly and attack the world!" Phoebe says.

Their eyes both grow wide at the possibility their breakfast could be responsible for the downfall of humanity.

"Not a chicken egg!" I say. "A mommy egg."

"Does mommy make eggs inside her?" Teddy asks.

"Yes."

"Ewww!" They both say.

"So chicken's eggs never become babies?" Teddy asks. He's so scientific all of a sudden. Why can't he be this excited about math?

"Yes, they do, but..."

"I'm eating chicken babies now?" Phoebe squeals.

"No! There are no babies involved in your breakfast!"

"How can you be sure?" Teddy asks.

"Because nobody loved this egg extra special!"

"I thought you said the bacon did, Daddy," Phoebe says.

I put a hand over my face and shake my head. I'm never going to get out of fatherhood alive.

"Do chickens get married?" Teddy asks.

"Forget the chickens! I was just using bacon and eggs as an example of two people in love who want to grow their family."

"Bacon and eggs is in love." Phoebe starts singing the wedding march and walking her bacon up the plate to meet her eggs. "You may kiss your bride." She smooshes the bacon into the yolk.

"I think you're losing them Christian," Ana says.

"You think?" I roll my own eyes.

"What your father and I wanted to tell you is,..." Drumroll. The kids are watching her like it's a cliff hanger on their favorite cartoon. "We're going to have a baby."

"A baby chicken?" Teddy asks.

"Yay, Boone gets a brother!" Phoebe claps her hands. That damn turkey.

"No, not a baby chicken," I say. "A real baby. Mommy and I..." I reach over and put a hand on her belly. "...are going to give you a brother or a sister."

They're quiet for a moment, staring ahead, contemplating what we just said. Fuck, I hope they're not going to be upset. I loved baby Mia, but then again Elliot hated me. It could go either way.

"I choose a brother!" Teddy says, raising his hand as a vote.

Phoebe fights to pull his arm down and replace his voting hand with her own.

"I want four sisters!"

"Four?" I ask. "I'm not sure we can accomplish that in one round." I don't know if I could survive four girls popping out at once. But, I wouldn't mind accomplishing the task one by one. Especially if it requires lots of practice sessions. Fuck Grey, you're starting to get wood right now and you haven't even finished your procreating bacon and eggs yet.

"And we could name them Pegasus, Petunia, Starfire and Nancy!" Phoebe says. Sounds like a trio of strippers and their booking agent.

"No, I want a brother named Stan!" Teddy says louder. He wants to call everything Stan. Why does he like that name so much? It's probably the name of a janitor he idolizes.

"No, sisters!" she says over him. "Brothers are dirty!"

"I know!" Him with the dirt!

"Quiet, kids! We're not taking votes. It just happens how it's going to happen."

"Daddy, did you love on Mommy's egg extra special?" Phoebe asks.

"Yes." Let's get off this subject. We're going downhill, fast.

"How?" she asks. Shit. I didn't know this was going to turn into their first Sex Ed lesson. I thought I was safe with the bacon and eggs analogy until they were at least twenty.

"I gave her my bacon late one night and it just happened."

"Clara Bohannon told me her parents hate each other, but he slipped her the sausage while on vacation and they had too much silly juice and now they have to stay together until she goes to college," Teddy says.

"Clara Bohannon's father is lucky anyone wants his sausage."

"I'll tell her."

"No, you won't! And don't tell anyone else that Mommy has a bun in the oven until we announce it at dinner tonight."

"I thought it was eggs, now it's bread?" Phoebe asks, blowing her bangs, exasperated. "Maybe mommy just had too much breakfast."

"I don't think she's had nearly enough." I smile at Ana and she rolls her eyes and bites her lip, simultaneously.

"I'm finished with breakfast," Phoebe announces, standing and throwing her napkin dramatically onto her plate.

"Why's that?" Ana asks.

"I'm not ready to be a mother."

"We're going to be outnumbered, Mommy," I say to Ana.

"I know." She smiles and I smile in return.

It's nice to be outnumbered by more.

#######

"Ana, I told you not to put your fingers on the bird!" I say, as I walk into the kitchen, just done with my jog and looking for coffee, when I catch her illicit handling of the uncooked death trap of poultry. A half-hour out of the house and she betrays me like this. "You're not supposed to do that when you're pregnant; you could catch salmonella or something."

"I'm just getting it ready. It has to go into the oven within the hour."

"Have Gail do it."

"She took the kids to pick up cream and butter from the dairy farm." Oh fuck, I hope they don't come back with a cow. I can only set up apartments for so many farm animals at once.

"The dairy farm? Why didn't she just go to the grocery store?"

"I wanted special dairy for the holiday."

"How is it special? Because it goes from tit to table faster?" Although, Ana's fresh milk is delectable. I'm salivating to taste it again.

She rolls her eyes.

"Where is the farm? Who owns it? Are you sure they pasteurize?"

"It's fresh." Like that means anything.

"So is E. coli."

"Christian, I just need to stuff this one. The other one is already done and ready."

I look to where she's pointing; a full stuffed bird is sitting on the counter all innocent, but I know it means threat. I shiver in horror just thinking where her hands have been on that thing.

"You mean you've already been exposed?" I gasp.

"I washed my hands."

"That's not enough to fight biological warfare. Ana, go take a shower with hot water and anti-bacterial soap and lay in bed."

"I can't lay in bed; it's Thanksgiving. I have to do this turkey."

"I'll do it."

"You can't cook."

"I'll have Taylor help me."

"He can't cook either."

"Ana, we're two responsible, grown men. He's been to war; I work out with Claude who was in the Olympics. We can handle a turkey."

#######

"It keeps slipping out of my hands," I say, trying to peel the packaging from the bird.

"Grip it by the meaty part of the legs and pull it out quick, sir." Taylor says.

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

"I've wrestled a bird once or twice." Do I want to know this?

"Oh yeah, where were you yesterday during the play?"

"I was a tree." Excuses, excuses.

I finally free it from the wrapping. It's slipping and sliding all over the basin like a football on an icy field. I feel like I should get points every time I catch it.

"What's next?"

" _Sugar Pie, reach your hand inside the open area and make sure it's clean_ ," Taylor says, reading from his _Southern Miss Magazine: A Sugar Pie Thanksgiving Cookbook_. It's got a girl with the biggest bottle blonde hair and store bought tits I've ever seen on the cover, wearing a frilly apron that says: _Kiss_ _the Cookie._ Taylor said this was the only Thanksgiving cookbook he could find; although, I'm not sure where he was looking. Possibly the porno housewife discount bin at the Barnes and Noble.

"Clean it? What do you mean, clean it?"

"It doesn't say, but maybe a fresh rinse to the meaty area would be nice." He says it like it's a fucking dip in the water for two summer lovers at the seashore.

"What do you mean a fresh rinse?"

"Some lemon, a sprig of mint and spring water, perhaps."

"You mean like a turkey douche?"

"Not quite that, sir. But, I suppose it provides a similar cleansing effect." This gets weirder and weirder. Me douching a turkey with Taylor is not how I want to spend my holiday.

"Lemon and mint aren't enough to kill salmonella!" It'll just make the bacteria feel like they're at the spa and get them rested up for later attack. "This thing can carry a variety of disease. I think I should use the tough stuff." I get some dishwashing liquid out and squirt it on the bird, rubbing it in and soaping up, then hosing it down with my multi-choice water spraying faucet set to hard rain.

"Are you sure you're supposed to do that, sir?"

"Of course. This is what the health department recommends."

"I've never heard that, sir."

"It's because you're not paying attention to poultry safety guidelines." I finish with a full spray-down. "What now?"

" _Sugar Pie, reach inside the hole and clear the area,_ " he reads. Clear the area? What the fuck is in there- farm debris?

I reach my hand in. Jesus, it's cold in this thing. Where is this bird from, the North Pole? How odd that I'm cooking one turkey and setting up a bachelor apartment with a sofa and HD television out back for another. I had to get the big screen; Phoebe insists he wants to watch nature shows so he won't be lonely for his people.

"Oh my god, Taylor! There's something inside here!" I say, pulling out a bag from the caracas of the bird that looks more like Halloween than Thanksgiving. It has bloody body parts inside that are sealed in a plastic bag like they're ready for export to science or a serial killer. I drop them on the counter like a bomb that needs defusing. "What is it?!"

"I think those are giblets, sir."

"What the hell is that?"

"The heart, the liver, the gizzard..."

"Did someone forget them in here? Why are they packaged up?"

"No, they provide them as a courtesy."

"Courtesy?! I don't think that's very courteous. Whose manners are these? Manson?"

"The book says you make the gravy with them."

"How?"

"From the juice."

"What do you do, squeeze it out? Like with your hands?"

"I'm not sure; I haven't finished chapter seventeen yet." He turns the page and shows me the photo tutorial of gravy making.

"That's where gravy comes from?" Ugh. I feel like I just learned the truth about Santa Claus. And not that he didn't exist; that he sells reindeer parts after Christmas on the black market. Suddenly gravy became my least favorite dish.

But, that's not the end of this horror story. I reach farther back and pull out a long, thick, bloody, bendy thing.

"Oh my god, don't tell me this was his penis!" I'm disgusted, but impressed by the size and girth of it for a twenty pound bird.

"It's his neck, sir."

Sweet Jesus, at least we're not making gravy with his penis. A thought of that white country gravy on the biscuits nearly causes me to lose my breakfast on my freshly soap washed bird.

"Just set it aside, Mr. Grey. Gail will handle the gravy."

I do so with prongs, so as not to touch the turkey organs when I place them in the other sink.

" _Now, Sugar Pie, it's time to prepare your bird friend for a rub down,_ " Taylor reads.

"Stop saying that!"

"Stop saying what?"

"Calling me, Sugar Pie!"

"That's what it says, sir."

"Well, eliminate the word, especially when talking about rubbing down my bird friend."

" _Take a bowl of your soft, creamy butter, Sugar-_ " He stops himself, wisely "...I mean, sir, _and excite it with the seasonings_." That didn't sound any better. In fact, Taylor calling me sir while trying to excite my butter is far worse.

"What seasonings are we supposed to use?"

"I'm not sure, I don't think it says."

"It's a cookbook. It has to say."

He holds it out for me and I read it. It doesn't say.

"Where did you get this thing?"

"It came with my subscription to "Big Guns" magazine."

I look at the centerfold pullout of Sugar Jayne carving her turkey in white socks and Mary Janes. Big Guns? More like Big'uns.

"Maybe you should try a little salt and pepper, sir."

"No, that's not good enough. Salt and pepper are everyday seasonings. It has to be more special than that. It's a holiday. People like extra flavor when they celebrate things."

I open the spice cabinet and peruse. I think the last time I looked in here was never. The turntable thing is quite a fun little gadget.

"What about cinnamon? That's a holiday flavor," I say, pulling it out.

"For pies, sir."

"Not in November. They sprinkle that shit everywhere in the fall."

I look deeper into the abyss of flavor. I spot a tiny tin and pull it out.

"What about saffron? That's exotic."

"Are you sure it's for holiday use, sir?

"It costs ninety bucks a tin," I say, reading the price tag on back. "I'd say that's festive."

I need some pizazz... Something to pop all the flavors. Cayenne pepper! That'll give it a little kick.

I arrange my medley of seasonings on the counter, ready to use them one by one.

"How much saffron do I use?" I hold a pinch-full of the paltry little strings. They look like something I fed my tadpoles in grade school science. "It doesn't seem enough for a whole bird."

He looks in the index at the back of his book.

"I don't see saffron in here, Mr. Grey."

"That's because Sugar Jayne doesn't cook with international flavors." I roll my eyes. "I'll just use the whole thing." I dump it into the bowl. Then put half of the cinnamon bottle in, because people like that stuff; and throw in some liberal shakes of cayenne to top it all off. I mix up my butter with a spoon. Fuck, it's not easy. I'm glad I didn't work out before creaming my butter. How do grandmothers survive making cookies with their arthritis?

"What now?" I ask, out of breath from my whipping efforts. I'm never this tired after other whipping efforts.

" _Scoop your butter, lift the skin of your big fella and spread it underneath until he's all buttered up_."

"My big fella?"

"I think she's talking about the turkey."

"I know that!" I shake my head. "How the hell do I lift the skin? You don't just lift skin. It's attached."

"I think there's a little pocket up top." Taylor reaches over feeling all over the skin.

"Taylor, please. Hands off my bird."

"I'm just trying to find a way inside." He plays with a little flap, testing its give. I think he's done this a lot in his life.

"Well, I don't want to find one of your knuckle hairs inside my mouth when I dig in to eat this thing." Just then he finds a large pocket and his hand slips through. "Pull it out, Taylor! You're stretching the skin too far."

"I'm not sure if I can without ripping something."

"Well, why did you push it in so hard?"

"I didn't think it would offer such little resistance."

He tugs twice, then sets himself free on the third. I do a thorough examination of the bird. He's lucky; I don't think he made any holes with his gorilla fingernails.

I take a scoop of my butter blend and push my hand down the path Taylor forged.

"Fuck! Why is my other hand stinging?" I say, shaking the bandaged one that's not under the skin of the bird.

"I think you may have gotten some cayenne pepper in your wound."

I hold it under the faucet until the burn starts to leave; like twenty minutes.

After a thorough rubdown of butter both on and under the skin, I'm satisfied with the results.

"I never knew it required so much butter. Is that why they call them butter balls?"

"I think you may be right, sir."

"Next step?"

"Now, you have to stuff it." Taylor hands me the bowl of Ana's pre-made stuffing. Odd to be stuffing something of Ana's into my bird, when it's always the other way around. Well, mostly.

I take a hunk of stuffing and push it inside the open area. It makes a noise that in any other circumstance would signify diarrhea. Jesus, I was already uncomfortable stuffing this thing up the rear, now I have to deal with this?

"Why is it farting when I put my fist in deep?"

"Loose air, sir."

"Loose air? What air do you know that's tight?"

"It feels tight when I fly military jets."

I stop my stuffing and give him a look. I'm not even going to comment on that.

I push handfuls of stuffing into the bird repeatedly, until the thing is so full, the contents are pushing out into the pan. Something about this makes me feel like a real man.

"Last step is tying this thing up, Mr. Grey." He hands me a spool of twine. You gotta be kidding me.

I push those legs together, wind the twine around the drumstick ends and have those turkey gams secured in less than thirty seconds flat.

"Huh, Taylor? Look at that!"

"In all due respect, Mr. Grey," Taylor says with trepidation as he stares at my work. "Your turkey looks like Boone should take it to his playroom."

I step back and take a gander. He's probably right. I shouldn't use the knots I use on Ana on our holiday dinner. I just get overexcited when I'm handed bondage materials. I untie my turkey and do Boy Scout knots instead.

We put both birds in the oven.

"Good job, Mr. Grey." He reaches for the unused twine. "I'll take that for you, sir."

"No, thank you." I lift it off the counter and out of his grasp. "I'll hold onto it."

I pocket the rest of the twine for later. We have hours until these birds are done and all the family gets here. I think I'll find my wife and tie up a few loose ends...

 _ **To be continued...**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Here is the final piece to the Thanksgiving story! Thanks for your patience! And for all of your reviews! Your words of encouragement mean so much to me! For those asking- yes, there will be a big Christmas story and it will follow this storyline. And yes, I will be updating my Darker story next with the ball. Enjoy xo**_

"Is it supposed to be that color, sir?" Taylor asks as we peek at our bird through the open oven door. I'm using the oven at the back corner of the kitchen, so nobody gets their greedy eyes on my fowl before I can surprise them with my newfound culinary skill at the Thanksgiving table. Ana and the rest doubt my abilities in the kitchen, but I'm about to prove them all wrong. This bird is going to knock their socks off.

"What do you mean? Turkeys are supposed to be golden brown. That's when you know the skin is crisp."

"I'm not sure I'd call that brown, Mr. Grey." He cocks his head and stares at it for moment, almost like he's decoding a bomb. Either that or he's trying to figure out how long it'll take his underwear to dry on a fast cycle. "It feels more like an enthusiastic mustard to me."

"What the fuck is an enthusiastic mustard?"

"The kind you squirt on your hot dog that doesn't have the seeds." Is he trying to say my turkey looks cheap? That saffron tin I threw on there was more than the bird itself. And the last thing I want to hear about is anything enthusiastic Taylor squirts on his hot dog, seeds present and accounted for or not.

"That's not mustard; there's way too much color in it to be mustard. Look at those red and orange streaks hugging the sides. It's like a Santa Fe sunset."

He stares at me for a moment.

"Which is not brown, Mr. Grey."

"I said golden brown. It just leans more heavily toward the golden." Like all the way, but I won't give him the satisfaction of admitting defeat in our color war. "Besides, yellow is a progressive step toward brown."

"Progressive, sir?"

"Bananas are always yellow before they're brown."

He looks confused.

"It's like a suntan. You don't just go from Wonder Bread white to Hawaiian Tropics in one go."

"I've never seen someone that color on the beach. The hospital after a spill of iodine, maybe... Or cirrhosis."

"What the fuck is your point?"

"It doesn't look like the turkey in the book, Mr. Grey," he says, opening that damn _Sugar Jayne Does Dallas on the Thanksgiving Dinner Table_ , or whatever the fuck it's called, cookbook. I swear, he treats that thing like it's the Turkey Day Bible and he's been entrusted to uphold the gobble gobble gospel. I think he just wants an excuse to look at breasts and thighs.

"Of course it doesn't! This is an international turkey. We're using spices from around the globe! You can't expect it to look like Mom and Pop America."

"I thought it was supposed to look like America on Thanksgiving."

"Thanksgiving was all about foreigners coming to a new world, trying things out and surviving..."

"Are we trying to survive this turkey, sir?" What, is he a fucking comedian all of a sudden?

"You know what I mean." I put a finger to my head to indicate he should start using his. "Forward thinking. Forging new paths. We're taking the boring old Thanksgiving turkey to a whole new level. I promise you, Taylor, people will be talking about this for years to come."

"That's what I'm afraid of, sir."

"Christian, can you give me a hand," Ana calls from the dining room.

Fuck. I shut the oven door fast. It would be just like her to sneak up on the quick and peep on my poultry.

"Just a minute," I call out. "Taylor, go get Ana's mother at the airport. When you come back, the bird should be done and we can make the gravy."

"We're making the gravy, sir?" He has a look of horror on his face like I just told him our ship was sinking and there are holes in all the lifeboats, so we have to swim to shore through shark infested waters.

"Yes, of course."

"I thought you were scared of the giblets, sir."

"Taylor, fear or no fear, there's only one person I trust with my drippings- You and me."

"That's two people, Mr. Grey."

"Not really."

"Yes, sir. I'll try to read up when we're at baggage claim."

He leaves and I take one more look at my turkey. It does sort of look like it has issues with its liver. The real issue being its liver is in a bag in the fridge. I know the problem! It looks sickly because it's still too raw. I don't think this thing is cooking fast enough. I jack up the temperature to 525. That skin is going to be nice and crispy.

########

"Why do we have to invite all the family over to dinner anyway?" I ask, helping Ana put the finishing touches on our table. She made me attach these long leaves to the ends to accommodate extra guests. Maybe I should've accidentally broken them so we'd have no room and she'd have to send the photographer, Kavanagh and Elliot out to the barn to eat with Boone.

"It's Thanksgiving," she says, like it's obvious or something.

"I'd be more thankful if we could just have dinner with the kids, watch a holiday movie and go to bed as soon as it gets dark."

"Are you that tired?"

"I didn't say anything about sleep." I raise a brow aimed at the removal of her underwear.

"Didn't you have enough fun with the twine earlier, Mr. Grey?" She passes in front of me, purposely brushing that pregnant peach ass of hers against my groin.

"Oh, Mrs. Grey, I could never get enough of you in twine." Although I prefer a thicker rope, twine works in a bind- so to speak.

She smiles and a blush dusts her cheeks. I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her close, my bite finding her delicious neck.

"Christian, it's almost time for dinner."

"I'm just starting with an appetizer."

She giggles as I nibble her ear lobe.

"I have to finish putting place cards on the table so people know where to sit."

"I know where I want you to sit."

"Christian!" she playfully scolds.

"Fine," I reluctantly let her go. "But as soon as the pie is served, I'm grabbing everyone's coats and sending them on their way."

I look down at the cards she's placed and run my eyes over the names.

"Why did you put me next to Kate and Elliot?"

"He's your brother."

"I sat next to him growing up, I've had my fill." I can just imagine Kavanagh shooting questions and giving me the snark eye all night. I swear, if I choose salt, she asks me what the hell my problem is with pepper. She thinks this makes her a good reporter. Reporter is just an official title for she can't mind her own fucking business. "Besides Elliot steals my rolls."

"What?" Ana spits a laugh.

"It's true. He loves those little tube croissant things." I remember how I'd be first to grab mine while they were piping hot. I had my eyes on the prize. He had his eyes on his armpits, making farting sounds and trying to blame it on me; but I never lost focus. He was always so envious of my buttering technique, too. I had my spread-to-bread ratio perfected down to a science. "And every time I turned my head for even a blink, he'd swipe them."

"Like the bread bandit?" she snorts.

"Ana, the lost rolls of my youth are not a laughing matter."

"I know, I'm sorry. I promise to make sure you have your heart's desire of buns tonight."

"Now, you're talking." I give her a swat on her own buns and she squeals.

"Where are you seated?" I ask, not able to find Ana's name anywhere near the vicinity of mine.

She points to the other end of the table.

"Why are you so far away from me?"

"It's traditional for the husband and wife hosting the meal to be on opposite ends."

"There's no valid tradition that tells the husband and wife to keep their ends apart!"

I examine Ana's end. To my horror, the photographer is two seats over from it!"

"No, Ana! Over my dead body will Jose be that close to your end!"

"You could consider it the beginning of the table."

"I don't want him that close to your beginning, either."

"My dad and Jose Sr. are friends," she says, like it's an answer.

"What does that mean?"

"Ray wants to sit next to Jose Sr. and Jose has to sit next to his father."

"Why does he have to sit next to his father? What, are they attached at the nutsack, or something?"

"Christian, honestly."

"I am being honest! I am to the brim, cup over-floweth full of honesty right now." I take a breath before honesty explodes out of my head. "Besides, how will we share our news about the baby if you're in another state?"

"I'm sure we will figure something out." She moves over to me and gives me a sweet, soft kiss. "Don't worry, you'll have my end all night long after they leave."

She kisses me again and I move to deepen it.

"I have to finish getting ready," she murmurs against my lips.

"Can I help?" I murmur against hers.

"No, because you'll keep taking off what I'm putting on." She reaches around and pulls my hands that are already halfway done untying her apron, away.

"That's the idea."

She swats me and smiles as she heads upstairs, and I watch her juicy peach bottom leave me.

Once she's gone, I move hurriedly to the table and shuffle the place settings to my liking. Once everyone's seated, she can't make them change places.

Taylor texts me: _"I just picked up Carla. I think she had a few cocktails in first class."_ What the hell does that mean?

 _"Is she drunk?"_ I text back.

" _She's not not drunk, sir._"

Oh fuck.

" _Stop by Starbucks and make it a triple."_

The last thing I need is a drunk Carla.

#######

"Daddy, Daddy," the kids run downstairs in their Sunday morning best. Those outfits will be a Saturday late night worst the second food hits their plates.

"I don't like my shirt, Daddy," Teddy says, pulling at the collar. Ana's got him in a full baby blue suit with a tie that has little turkeys on it that could be mistaken for splats of gravy from afar.

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's making my neck itch."

"Is it too tight?"

"No, I think it's too clean."

I roll my eyes.

"Well, don't worry. It'll be filthy as soon as you try to get the cranberry sauce from the fork to your mouth by way of your sleeve."

"Do you like my dress, Daddy?" Phoebe twirls. She's in a pale yellow number with a chocolate brown cardigan that has sunflowers for buttons.

I drop to my knees on the rug and grab my chest dramatically, as if in wound.

"What's wrong, Daddy?"

"You pierced my heart with your beauty."

She giggles just like Ana as she wraps her arms around me and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

"How does Chester look?" She pulls him out from her sweater pocket. He's wearing a suit that matches Teddy's- turkey tie and all. Gail must spend all of her free time making outfits for that fucking rodent. He's got a more extensive wardrobe than me. Of course, all I wear is three colors.

"He looks presentable enough for the table in his cage."

"He doesn't gotta table in his cage. Just a dizzy wheel."

"Tell him to do a few laps on the dizzy wheel while he eats, he'll burn off the holiday bulge before it sets in." That hamster is so fat. He doesn't even have to walk for himself. The only time he uses his legs is when he's sprinting to and from his attack victim, which is usually me. Of course, it is probably difficult for a hamster to walk around in dress slacks.

"No, I'm gonna get him a tea cup and he can sit in it by my plate."

"We're not going to eat dinner with a rodent on the table."

"But, we always do, Daddy." Fair point well made.

"Can we go eat with Boone?" Teddy asks.

"No, you're not eating in the barn, you're eating with your family."

"Boone is family, Daddy."

 _Ding-Dong._

Fuck, the first guests have arrived. Why are they so early? I look at my watch; they're actually five minutes late. Still, what happened to the twenty-minute rule?

The kids race to the door.

"Look through the peep hole first! Make sure it's not a crazy we don't know." We have to let in the crazies we do know, it's Thanksgiving.

"Ana, they're here!" I call and turn to see this goddess of mine walking in from the kitchen. She looks breathtaking. Her hair is down and wavy and smells like a meadow; her lips are a plum- that much like that Jimmy Horner in the corner- I want to stick my thumb or something else inside. She's wearing a navy dress that's covered up with the cutest frilly white apron. It's moments like these I can pretend she's barefoot, pregnant and chained to my kitchen.

"Well, hello Mrs. Grey."

She smiles and unties her apron, taking it off to reveal a plunging neckline that pops some of the plumpest produce I've ever seen.

"Ana, why are your tits out like that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you buy that thing on the pornography rack?"

"I've worn it before."

"Yeah, but not when they looked like that!" She's grown like four sizes, seemingly overnight. Wars could be fought over those promised lands, and they were promised in front of God, my family and a bunch of other idiots to me.

"You're being ridiculous."

"I am not. I don't want every man at the table to imagine feeding on them instead of the turkey."

"You're worried about your father and brother staring at my chest?"

"Jose, okay!"

"You don't want to stare at them?" She pushes them forward, lessening the available square footage in my pants.

"Of course I do, they're beautiful."

She brushes them up against me.

"This dress does have its advantages."

"Oh yeah. What's that?" I can't resist, I have to touch.

"You can imagine taking it off of me later." Straight to my cock!

I can't resist; I pull her in for a deep kiss.

"Hey, bro. Keep it PG for the kids," Elliot says, breaking up our moment.

With an arm still around Ana's waist, I turn to see my brother, Kavanagh and little Ava headed toward us. I can see Elliot's eyes pop out of his head when he nearly shoots his load, getting a load of Ana.

"Mommy and Daddy is making bacon and eggs again!" Phoebe hollers.

"What does that mean?" Ava asks.

"It means Mommy's cooking the eggs Daddy loves extra special."

"We're having eggs tonight?" Elliot asks. "I didn't know you liked eggs so much, bro."

"Phoebe, what did I say about talking about bacon and eggs before dinner?" I swear, I tell her to keep the baby a secret and she almost blurts it to the first idiot she sees, who just so happens to be the biggest.

"Sorry, I forgetted."

"Geez, Christian. Lighten up." Kavanagh snarls. I notice she's carrying a gigantic punch bowl full of bottles of liquor.

"Katherine," I say, upholding my well trained manners and giving her a peck on the cheek. "It's always a treat." I motion to the liquor. "I see you brought your own supply."

"Funny." She doesn't laugh. She just scrunches her nose up like she smells something bad or rather just her usual expression. "I'm making Kavanagh Kool Aid." Always like Kate to class up an event.

"That stuff you made in college?" Ana asks.

"Yeah, I though it would it be fun. Jose loves it. We'll make a toast to the three amigos."

"There will be no toast to the amigos in my house!"

"Mommy's making bread in her stove!" Phoebe blurts out, excitedly, then gasps and throws her her hands over her mouth. "Oh no! I forgetted again!"

"Cool!" Elliot say. "Fresh rolls." Fucker gives me a look of warning aimed straight at my buttered biscuits.

 _Ding-Dong._ Wonderful, more of the flock.

"I'll get it!" the kids say in unison and battle it out for who's going to get to turn the door knob as they race down the hall. I take Ana's hand and we follow behind them.

"Don't run on the marble! You'll crack your heads open!" I yell to them, but they pay me no mind.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" Grace says, holding one of the apple pies she baked as she and my father-who holds the other two- enter the front door that Teddy just opened in well fought victory.

"Thanks, Mom," I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "You know apples are the way to my heart." I married a girl that smells sweet like them. I give Ana kiss on the side of her head and inhale the scent of her hair.

I say a quick hello to my father and sister as Grace pulls Ana in for a bear hug. She's still so grateful her son found someone who could put up with him. Who am I kidding?-So am I.

"Oh, Ana!" Grace says, pulling back to look at her. "You're positively glowing."

"Mom!" I put a shush finger to my lips. She nods and pretends to lock her lips with her fingers. She and my father are the only ones, besides the kids, who know about the baby. I think I may have to worry about her spilling the beans more than Phoebe. At least Phoebe spills the beans using breakfast code.

"Gramma, Grampa!" Phoebe says, tackling my father's leg. "You have to see our turkey brother!"

My father gives me a quizzical look.

"I'll explain later."

My grandmother clears everyone aside with her cane and then stands in front of Ana, giving her the once over.

"Have you put on weight, dear?"

"Grandmother!" I say. I knew Ana was getting bigger, faster this time. I love it, but I know how she gets about comments on her weight- pregnant or not. "Ana looks perfect to me."

"Don't listen to the old coot, Ana dear." my grandfather says and gives her a kiss on the cheek. "If it's a pound or two, it's weight in all the right places." He gives me a knowing wink. Not knowing like he knows she's pregnant; knowing like he knows I'm getting good lovin'. My grandparents are are so embarrassing. I can't imagine if I dated real girls in high school.

"Everyone come in and make yourselves at home," I say and they scatter inside.

Before I can shut the door, here comes Ray, Jose Sr. and the photographer. Junior's got that camera strapped around his neck again. I don't think I've ever seen him without it. I'm sure he's going to try and snap photos of my family without me in them. Fucker.

"Daddy!" Ana says, giving Ray a big hug and the kids run over and grab on each of his legs, leaving me in an awkward alone moment with the Father and Son Jose.

"Glad you could make it," I say, reaching out a hand that Father Jose doesn't take; he just grunts and nods.

"Christian, I'm really excited to be here," the photographer says, looking about ready to piss his pants or make some other mess in them when he turns his attention to Ana and her cleavage. I swear, if he make one move, I'll use the turkey carving knife on those raisins he calls testicles. Not that I've seen them up close, but I can only imagine.

"I'm sure." I turn to Jose Sr. "Did you have a nice trip in?"

He takes what feels like five minutes or decades or years waisted off my life to answer.

"Long," he says.

Conversation finished.

Everyone gathers in the great room and fraternizes, while Ana and Gail dart back and forth from the kitchen. I wisely closed the partition to the area my oven is in, so they wouldn't see any of my magic at work. I'm keeping an eye on my iPhone alarm for when my turkey is done. I've timed the baking of this bird as precisely as I butter my rolls.

"Ana, quit running so fast," I say, stopping her as she passes by. "You're liable to trip on a carpet edge and fall and be in a coma for a week." Or put someone in one with those tatas flying around.

"A coma, Christian?" She sounds like that's ridiculous.

"It's happened before."

She rolls her eyes. I look around to make sure no one is looking and give her a little swat.

"Here, let me do whatever you're doing, Ana."

"No, that's okay. I'm in a groove. Just worry about your turkey."

"I don't need to worry. My turkey is fantastic!"

She squints her eyes like she might not believe me.

"Then, entertain the guests."

"I don't want to entertain the guests. I want to hide in the kitchen with you." I look over at Kavanagh who's mixing up her punch on the bar. I don't think she's using any recipe, except for sorority girl common sense. "Besides people are about to be entertained with hard liquor."

"Make conversation with Jose's dad."

"What? Why?" She always wants me to make friends with that man! How can I talk to a guy that primarily grunts for communication and is allergic to more than one word sentences? Then again, I grew up with Elliot...

"He's staring at the wall."

"He always does that. Especially when I talk to him."

"Ana, could you help me with the green beans?" Gail calls out.

"Christian, please just do it. I don't want you in the kitchen too long. Things happen when you linger in there."

She kisses my cheek and darts back to do her work. Things happen when I'm in the kitchen too long? Yeah, it's called flavor. After tonight she'll be begging for my culinary expertise.

I move to the great room and begrudgingly head for Jose Sr., who's still staring at that wall. What does he see, anyway? The future that didn't happen with his son and Ana? These people need to get over it. It's been seven years! And to think, they despise me, wish me dead so they could steal my wife and I still invite them to my house for the holidays!

"Yo, bro," Elliot shouts, taking the first dip out of Kate's frat party punch bowl. Though, I'm sure he's not the first one that ever dipped into Kate's bowl when that punch comes out. "Remember that time Mom and Dad rented a cabin for Thanksgiving and you were in the shower and I cut off the hot water and you screamed and I told you a bear did it and it was in the house gonna eat you and you ran naked through the woods..."

"I believe you locked me out as well. For an hour!"

"Good times." He laughs.

"I remember when he used to piss on the apple trees and say it was apple juice!" My grandfather shouts out and everybody laughs.

"I'm so enjoying this trip down memory lane at my expense," I say.

"Oh Christian, it's all in good fun," Grace says. "Remember the lemon eating contests?"

"Elliot won every time," I say. Sucking face with lemons prepared him for life with his wife.

"Why don't you have some punch, Christian?" The lemon herself asks, holding her ladle out to me like that witch who offered Snow White the apple. Or was that Satan to Eve?

"Because I want to be able to walk in a straight line to my meal."

"Ana," she calls to her as she hurriedly passes. Kate is the worst friend. She's watching Ana work while she chug-a-lugs with my brother. Only she would bring a big vat of liquor as her Thanksgiving side dish offering.

"What, Kate?" Ana asks.

"Let's all toast."

Everyone grabs a glass. Kate tries to hand one to Ana, but I stand in the way.

"She's not drinking that!" Over my dead body is my wife and unborn child going to be exposed to that toxic sludge.

"Why not?"

"Because she has work to do in the kitchen." That excuse came out a little wrong. Everyone's looking at me like I've chained Ana up and have forced her to be the slave of my stove. Hey, that could be a hot role-play...

"Cave man, much?" Kate asks, cocking her head in snark.

"He means I have to think clearly when measuring out the ingredients."

I love my Ana; we're in this together

"Exactly, we don't want too much flour in the potatoes," I add.

"You don't put flour in potatoes," Grace says. Thanks, Mom.

"My sweet potatoes!" Ana remembers and I watch those sweet, sweet potatoes leave me.

I stand there waiting for Kate to say something, but for the first time in the history of the world, it doesn't happen.

"What's your toast?" I ask.

"What toast?"

"You said you wanted to make a toast."

"I don't want to say anything; I just want to drink."

Of course; I should've known.

I feel tugs on my leg. I look down and it's the kids.

"Hey, Daddy, when do we open presents?" Teddy asks.

"Presents? It's not Christmas."

"It's Thanks-givers day," Phoebe adds. I thought that means you gotta give us a good one and we says thank yous." Of course my kids would think that. They see Dad as an easy mark. They expect gifts on an average Monday, and they usually get them.

"Boone's getting cable television in the barn on Monday. Enjoy that."

I see that Jose is enjoying another round of college memories at the bowl, so I sit down across from Jose Sr., who's still starring at the wall.

"How's it looking out there, tonight?" I attempt to joke.

"Dark."

"That good, huh?" I hope he's commenting on the night sky out the window, rather than my fate from his voodoo curse.

"Uncle Jose, I'm so happy you're here!" Phoebe squeals and jumps on him as he makes his way back to his father. "I missed you for the longest time!

"Me, too," Ava says and gives him a big kiss on the cheek.

What is he, fucking Santa Claus? Ava never says she misses me!

"It hasn't been that long, Phoebe." It could never be long enough!

I'm about to ask Jose Sr. his opinion on world affairs just to hear what he gives for a one word response, when I hear laughter. It's a woman. I think I hear Taylor's voice, too. Oh fuck. He's back with Carla.

"I think someone's arrived, Christian," my mother says. "Want me to see?"

"No, no. You enjoy your punch. I'll go."

"Oh, I am. Soooo much!" she laughs. She better watch it. I don't want to have to keep an eye on two drunk mothers tonight.

I walk to the foyer and see Taylor helping Carla through the front door. And by help, I mean carrying her shoes, holding her at the waist, and her hands clutching his shoulders in an effort to stay upright.

"You know, Taylor... You're very good with women's things . Are you a professional?"

"It's more of a hobby than a profession, ma'am."

He spots me.

"Sorry we took so long, sir. We had to make that Starbucks run. Twice."

Oh fuck.

"Christian!" she says, unlocking from his shoulders and finding mine. She gives me a hug that would send the old me into an institution.

"Carla, welcome. How was the flight?"

"Wonderful. First class has a lot of good benefits."

"Like dental insurance?" I joke.

She doesn't get it at first, then she throws her head back dramatically and starts to laugh, far too loud. Thankfully, my mother's laughter in the other room is drowning her out.

"Oh you are funny! No wonder my Ana married you. You've got such snappy..." She tries to snap her fingers a few times, but misses. "...wit."

"I think the last thing Ana married me for was my sense of humor."

"Oh, I know what the first thing was!" She points her finger, wiggles it and winks.

Oh my god.

"Where's Bob?"

Her expression changes from a smile to a snarl.

"Probably hanging off his mother's tit like usual."

Uhhhh...

"That's what I like about you, son. You always choose your wife's tit first."

How the fuck do I respond to that?

"Ana!" I call out. "Your mother's here!"

########

"So, I ask the Captain, how do you see to fly at night," Carla tells the crowd in the living room. "And he says, with my eyes."

"With my eyes!" My mother laughs, along with the rest of the drunken crew surrounding Kate's bowl like it's a fountain of holy water.

"I think it's just the jet lag," Ana says, as we spy from the dining room.

"I don't think there's any lag in her jet. She just keeps going."

"Carla, I'm so glad you're my mother-in-law," Grace says.

"I'm not your mother-in-law, I'm your sister-in-law."

"I'll just call you my best friend."

Oh. My. God.

They hug and laugh. And to think I was worried about introducing an inebriated Carla to the party. I think she's more sober than my mother.

"We need to do something," Ana says.

"We have to get food in these people!" I give her a look. "Remember, drinking rule number one."

She tries to fight it, but she smiles.

And at the perfect time my iPhone buzzer goes off. My bird is done. I can't wait to see my beautiful creation.

########

"Oh my god," I open my oven to find my bird in a cloud of smoke.

"Well, at least it's not mustard anymore, sir."

It definitely progressed past yellow and kept going beyond brown, until it made it all the way to charcoal black.

"What do we do now?" I say, waving the puffs of smoke emanating from the foul smelling fowl.

"Someone put it on 525 degrees!" Taylor says, reading the temperature.

"That was me!"

"Why, sir?"

"It wasn't cooking fast enough."

"Maybe I can take some of the char off with a knife, like you do with burnt toast, sir."

"Good idea." I put on my oven mitts and pull out the grate, rushing it to the sink. "Close the oven! I don't want to alert everyone with the smoke alarm going off."

Taylor closes the oven door, grabs a knife from the drawer and starts to scrape. He really moves fast under pressure. He must've been remarkable in pinch-time battle.

"I think it's working," he says.

"You just took a chunk of the skin off!"

"That's where the burnt part is."

"You can't serve a skinned turkey, it looks creepy."

"Creepier than it is?"

"Yes! Charcoal is much better than Hannibal Lector and fava beans."

"Is Ana serving fava beans, sir?" What an idiot.

"Here, let's try and wash off the residue." I lift the sprayer and douse it.

"Sir, the stuffing!"

Fuck! I turn off my sprayer. I forgot about that. Now the bread is all wet. Taylor gives me a look of utter disgust. He's seen dead bodies in war, how is he so disgusted by water soaked bread?

"People like their stuffing moist," I say. "I got it. Put the stuffing in a bowl. We'll slice this bird up and cover it with gravy."

He proceeds to spoon soggy yellow and red striped bread into a bowl. I pull out a knife from the holder and start to slice pieces and place them on a platter.

"Aren't we supposed to carve it in front of people?"

"Nobody wants to see this in public!"

I finish with the slices, then race to the oven, pull out the pan and set it on the counter.i accidentally catch my finger on the side and sear my flesh.

"Fuck!" I cry out in pain.

"What, sir?"

"Nothing! Let's just make the gravy."

"What are those lumpy black things at the bottom, Mr. Grey?"

"The giblets."

"How'd they get in there, sir?"

"I put them in halfway through."

"In the pan?"

"Am I speaking English? Yes, Taylor. In the pan. Like you told me."

"Sugar Jayne never said to put them in the pan." What, is he a member of her fucking cult now?

"You told me to cook them."

"Not like that, sir. You're supposed to simmer them in a little pot."

"You mean, like marijuana?"

"No, like a saucepan."

"Why should I cook it separately when the flavors all blend together at once in there?"

"Because, this happens, sir." He grabs a spoon and proceeds to scrape the charred organs from the bottom.

"It'll be a dark gravy."

"With all due respect, sir." You always know someone's going to disrespect the fuck out of you when they say that. He points to the electric yellow drippings at the bottom. "It looks like the turkey went."

"Went where?"

"All over the bottom of the pan."

"Are you saying my gravy looks like piss?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's not piss; that's sunshine colorful."

"I don't think of sunshine when I see it."

"We'll just add whatever you add to gravy to make it thick. Piss isn't thick, Taylor."

"Not usually." I don't want to fucking know what that means. He opens his book. "You add flour."

You add flour to gravy and not to potatoes? Who knew? I get the flour out of the canister on the countertop.

"How much?"

"How much what, sir?"

"How much do you fucking love me?!" I roll my eyes. "Flour! How much flour!"

"1/2 cup, I think. It depends on your desired volume."

"We want a lot." It's going to take a lot of thick piss to cover up this shit. I guesstimate a pour and stir it in.

And I stir, and I stir, and I stir...

"It's not getting thick!"

"It said it should."

"What do you mean _should_? They didn't guarantee it?"

"Sugar Jayne says,..." He opens the book to read. _"It's like trying to get a pickle to sit still in a half empty jar."_

"What the fuck does that mean?!"

"I don't know, sir. I think it's a country joke."

"Well, I'll tell you what's going to be a fucking northwestern suburban legend- you and me and this turkey piss, if we don't fix it!"

My gravy is separating and balling up. It now not only looks like the turkey pissed, it looks like he passed kidney stones in the process.

"Taylor, we can't serve this."

"Oh, thank God!"

Did he just make the sign of the cross?

"You need to go to the store and get me another turkey."

"It takes hours to make a new one! We won't eat until breakfast."

"You think I want to do this all over again?"

"Maybe, sir..."

"A cooked one! Get a cooked one!"

"What store, Mr. Grey? Everything's closed now."

"I don't know. Just go find something!"

He takes off.

"Christian!" Ana calls, knocking on the door. "Are you done in there, yet?"

"Uh, almost."

"What's that smell?"

"What smell?"

"It kind of smells like an Indian barbecue restaurant."

"Don't be silly. There's nothing but full blown Americana home cooking in here!"

I wait for her to go and place the pan with my piss drippings back in the oven, so no one will see it.

"Oh great, you're here," Ana says, as I enter the dining room. "We can start."

"Start what?"

"Dinner."

"Already?" I think I failed to mask my horror at the possibility of the meal actually being served.

"What do you mean already? We're behind schedule."

"Everyone's busy relaxing and enjoying themselves."

"Let's do karaoke!" Mia calls out.

"We don't have a machine!" Carrick says.

"Who cares?" the drunk mothers say in unison and start to sing _"if we could turn back time",_ a la Cher.

"You said they need food in them. Drinking rule number one, remember?"

"Oh yes, I mean, I can't wait to eat..." Who am I kidding? I'm biding my time, hoping everyone out there gets so drunk they forgot we didn't eat and just go to bed. Unfortunately, I can't get past Ana or the kids. Taylor better fucking hurry! "But, first we have to make our announcement."

"Yes, we do." She smiles and leans up to give me a kiss.

"Everyone find your seats," I say. They don't pay attention. "Find your seats!" I say, louder.

"Are they lost?" Carla asks.

"Are they lost?" Grace laughs, and she and Carla hobble up together arm-in-arm.

The group meanders over, stumbling about to find the name tags I rearranged.

"Ana," Jose says. "Let me take a picture of you by the table." I know what he's really taking a picture of- a closeup of her rack. Before he can get his flash off, I swoop in, put an arm around her waist and hold a napkin over her chest.

"Why are there two names on my card?" Grace asks, lost in her drink induced double-vision.

"It's because you're double the special," Carla says and they laugh.

"Why are Elliot, Jose and I at the kids table?" Kate asks, with a look pointed at me. Though her point isn't as sharp when five types of alcohol are involved.

"Don't look at me, Ana made the tags."

"Yay! I'm at the big table!" Phoebe yells and she and Ava hug and cheer, jumping up and down like they've just won Chutes and Ladders all-stars.

"Me, too!" Teddy says, sitting in his chair. He grabs his knife and fork and slams the ends down on the table around his plate. "I'm gonna eat like a man tonight."

"Christian, did you do this?" Ana asks, pulling me aside, pointing to the tags.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because, I would rather sit with the children than the three derelict mice over there. Besides, Elliot likes it."

"Cool, we get to color on our placemats over here!" Elliot picks up his crayon and starts in on the turkey paint by numbers.

"Christian, the kids are supposed to be there."

"Why should the kids be moved off to some second class table? I put seventeen leaves on this thing, it should have enough room."

She's thinking about it. She knows I have a point.

"You know, you're right."

"I know." I am?

"It'll be a tight squeeze, but everyone should be able to sit at the big table."

Why do I have a feeling she's going to make sure I'm smushed closer to my brother and Kavanagh now?

"Where's my seat?" she asks.

"Right next to me."

"The kids are to your right and left."

"Yay!" They all cheer again. Even Chester lifts up on his hind legs in celebration from his teacup. I think he lost his pants.

"No, I mean right next to me. Like a love seat."

I push the seats close together.

"Christian, that looks completely bizarre. There's no chair on the other end."

"Do you think I care what looks bizarre?"

"No, you definitely don't care about that." She folds her arms and raises a brow. With those arms folded, her tits squeeze together and up like they're being inflated with a bicycle pump. There's no way I'm letting those things spill out onto the plate in front of an inebriated Jose.

"Plus, I can have easy access under your skirt." I whisper in her ear.

"Christian," she looks around to make sure no one is in earshot. "You are not fingering me at the Thanksgiving table."

"Not even a tickle?"

"No!"

What a Debbie Downer.

After a shuffling, everyone is in their correct chair. This is it. Time for the big announcement.

"Before we begin, Ana and I want to say something..."

"You're moving to Toledo!" Carla says.

"Moving to Toledo!" Grace says, laughing.

"No, but good guess."

"Is this bacon and eggs time?" Phoebe asks.

"Phoebe, shhh," Ana says with a finger to her lips.

I hook my arm around Ana's waist and pull her closer.

"Ana and I are extremely thankful this year. We have been blessed with good health, our family, our friends..." Jose smiles like I was talking to him. Jose Sr. just continues to stare at the wall. "And of course our children." I look to Teddy, then to Phoebe, then to Ana. Her eyes are so blue under the sparkle of the chandeliers. I'm taken back to that first day I brought her to this house to admire the view. We were so young; impulsive. I loved her then, but it's nothing compared to what I feel for her now. And the view- my favorite one- gets better every day. "I am especially thankful for my wife, who gave me all this with her devotion to me; her faithfulness; and her ability to love me in spite of myself..."

"She's a saint!" Kavanagh yells out and she and Elliot laugh. I choose to ignore them.

"And, we'd like to share with you our good news. Ana is-"

"He stuck a bun in your oven!" My grandmother shouts. "I knew that's why you were so fat!"

"Yay, bread time is finally here!" Phoebe says, throwing her arms victoriously in the air.

"Yes, Ana is going to make me a father again."

There are squeals and cheers and tears. Mostly tears coming from Jose. That's right- cry, fucker, cry!

"My brother only shoots straight bullets!" Elliot says, raising his glass. He's taken his coloring supplies to the big table.

I pull Ana in for a kiss, putting a hand across her belly. Fuck the rest of the world; it's just us.

"Thank you, Mrs. Grey," I whisper, gazing into eyes that I got lost in once and found myself inside.

"For what?"

"More."

We share a kiss.

"Sir," I hear Taylor's voice calling from the kitchen, breaking our moment. I turn to him. "Your turkey is ready."

"Great, Taylor! We'll carve it in the kitchen."

"Why don't you carve it out here so everyone can see?" Ana asks.

"They've all seen a turkey before."

"I've seen a turkey before. I married him!" Carla says.

"Thanks, Carla," Ray says.

"Not you, Ray. You were the good one."

"Carrick," my mother says. "Remember that turkey shaped thing that night on our honeymoon-"

"Okay, mother," I say, then head for the kitchen.

"Would you like me to help, Mr. Grey?" Gail asks.

"No, no. You're a guest today. Sit and enjoy."

I walk into the kitchen and see Taylor holding a large cardboard box.

"Great, you got a turkey!"

I look inside the box. It's not a turkey. It's about forty-five sandwiches on French rolls wrapped in plastic with orange stickers that say: _Day Old._

"What the fuck is that?"

"Turkey, sir."

"That's not a turkey! Those are sandwiches."

"Turkey sandwiches. It's the best I could do. The only thing open was the Quickie Mart. I cleared them out."

Fuck. I pull one out and open it up.

"This is round meat!"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"It's processed! Nobody will think I cut this meat! It's all flat and shiny."

"Flat and shiny, sir?"

"The real stuff is rough and moist." Anything good always is.

"Maybe they won't notice."

"What will they think? I have a processing plant back here to make Bologna shapes out of my meat?"

"They are quite intoxicated, sir. I'm not sure they can tell shapes."

He does have a point...

"Okay, take all the turkey out and put it on a platter. We'll dress it up with some garnish."

"What's the garnish, sir?"

#######

"Why is there lettuce all over the turkey?" Teddy asks.

"It's tradition! The pilgrims loved lettuce."

"Ewww, salad parts!" Phoebe says, covering her mouth with her napkin.

"Here." I hold the silver tray out for my brother to pass around. I figure, start with the biggest idiot; pass it to the drunks and the kids; and by the time it gets to Ana, it'll be all gone and she'll never notice.

"Christian? That's lunch meat!" Ana whispers to me.

Fuck. She noticed.

"What are you talking about? It's fresh turkey!"

"Why is there mayo stuck to it?" Kavanagh asks, holding up a slice with white stuff dripping off.

"That's not mayo," Elliot laughs.

"That's a dip I made," I say.

"A dip for the turkey? Like ranch?" Teddy asks.

"Much fancier than that. It has truffles in it." Good lie, Grey.

"Like chocolate?" Teddy asks.

"Like mushroom things," I say.

"Eww, mushroom parts! Phoebe squeals.

"I have a pickle!" Jose says, like he's proud one actually exists for him.

"I think we need wine! You can't have pickles without wine!" Grace says and heads to the kitchen and the wine fridge.

"Christian this has to be joke!" Ana says.

"Are you laughing?

"No!"

"Then, it's not a joke."

"Now, I'm really not laughing."

"You're a tough audience."

"Lovers spat!" Elliot yells.

"There's no spat, we're just discussing what's in my dip."

Ana drags me from my chair and pulls me around the corner.

"Did you mess up the turkey?"

"That's subjective."

"Subjective to what?"

"Subjective to how dark you like your meat."

"Everyone, dig in to the turkey!" Grace says from around the corner. They all cheer.

"See, they like it!"

"Why is the meat yellow?" Phoebe asks.

Of fuck!

I rush back around the corner and see that everyone has my turkey slices on their plates and they're eating them!

"Eww! It tastes like hot soap," Phoebe says, spitting it out on her plate.

"Mine tastes like my butt!" Teddy says. I'm not sure how he knows what his butt tastes like, but now is not the time to ask.

I grab the kid's plates from them.

"I think my mouth has third degree burns!" Kavanagh yells out. Well, maybe one good thing will come of it- she can't talk for awhile.

"Where did you get that?" I ask.

"I found it in the kitchen on a platter," Grace says, grabbing for her water, but deciding on her wine, instead.

"I need some punch to kill my tastebuds!" Jose says, running for the great room and Kate, Carla and my mother follow.

Everyone is gagging and spitting into their napkins, except for Elliot.

"I like it," he says with a shrug as he digs in and grabs a roll off my plate.

########

"I can't face anyone ever again," I say to Ana as we clean up the explosion that was Thanksgiving and I take my leftover turkey from table to trash. I usually leave clean-up to others, but I was too embarresed for anyone else to get a good view of my bird. "I'm moving to the barn with Boone. He'll have a hot tub on Monday that I can drown myself in."

"Well, at least everyone was so drunk, they might not remember anything."

"The kids weren't drunk! Trust me, they'll remember. They won't think of Pilgrims or Indians or good food when they think of this day. They'll think about the time their father almost poisoned them."

"Poisoned is a strong word."

"I'll tell you of a stronger image—projectile vomiting."

"Well, we had the other turkey for them to remember, too. And your lunch meat slices..."

"I wanted them—and you— to remember my turkey and be proud." I sigh. "I'm just sorry I let everyone down." I lower my head so I don't have to face her disappointed eyes.

"I am proud of you and so are they." She sets the cranberry sauce she's holding on the edge of the cleared table and puts her arms around my waist. "They're going to remember that you were there for them today and that you tried."

"Tried and failed."

"Tried and failed and kept on going."

"Yeah, I failed and kept going alright."

She pulls me closer. "You don't have to cook well for us to love you. Besides, the only turkey they'll remember this Thanksgiving is the one living it up in the barn."

"Well, I am thankful for that."

"And I'm thankful for a lot, too."

"Oh yeah?" I brush her hair away from her face.

She presses her chest against my torso. Man, those melons look ripe against my ribs.

"I have wonderful family and friends- drunk, but wonderful. I have beautiful children, both in the world and on the way." She touches her belly. "And I have you. You make everything perfect, Christian."

"Perfect? I screwed up today."

"But, you did it with love. That's all that matters to me."

"So, you're going to let me try again at Christmas?"

"No."

"Didn't think so."

We both laugh and I give her a kiss. Her lips are so luscious. I get a wicked idea.

"You know," I say. "Everyone is asleep. There's a lock on the dining room door..." I move to lock it. "And we have plenty of leftovers..."

"What are you suggesting, Mr. Grey?"

I pull her back into my arms and unzip her dress slowly, releasing those glorious breasts as the satin hits the floor.

"I'm a man starved," I say, removing her bra and bringing my mouth to the swell of her chest.

"But, you've already eaten."

"Not my favorite dish."

I pick her up and carry her to the table, placing her at the center of the wood as the main feast.

What's your favorite holiday dish, Mr. Grey?" she purrs.

"Potatoes, cranberries and Ana..."

She smiles as I reach for her discarded bowl on the edge of the table and spoon the leftover cranberries onto her breasts, officially making my Thanksgiving dreams come true.

 ** _Thank you for reading! Watch out for my Christmas Story! xo_**


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